


Homeward

by dragonofdispair, Rizobact



Series: Chase The Sky Into The Ocean [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE POLITICS, Alien Biology, Alien Mythology/Religion, Angst, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fantasy AU, Fluff, Genderbending, Gods, Gotta Fill Out That World Somehow, Kidnapping, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Magic, Minor Character Death, Noble AU, Now Prowl Climbs All The Things, OCs - Freeform, Politics, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Violence, War, barbarian au, femme!Jazz, femme!prowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 108,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: Sequel toAll In All: Time on the mainland waits for no Princess. While Prowl is away learning the ways and trials of being Polyhexian, Imperial Prince Silverstreak of Praxus and Prime Ascendant Arcee of Iacon are wed as the demon summoners rise up against Kaon’s senate, threatening to pull the whole continent into war. After a vorn, Prowl returns to find Praxus and Iacon already committed to the conflict, and for all that she prefers the path of a Polyhexian warrior, she is still beholden to Praxus as its princess.Prowl’s final choice lies ahead of her, and the one she makes may shape the future of the world.
Relationships: Arcee/Silverstreak, Jazz/Prowl, Ricochet/Smokescreen
Series: Chase The Sky Into The Ocean [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/968571
Comments: 223
Kudos: 40





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: beta’d by wicked3695

_I try to find the strength I need~♪_  
_To calm the doubts in my belief~♪_  
~~ VNV Nation, [Homeward](https://youtu.be/glfH5c_1hYE)

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####  Four Months Ago

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Unlike the walls around most hot spots, the walls protecting the First City’s newlings were more decorative than functional. In this place, Iacon City, there was no need to safeguard the newlings within from wild mechanimals and ancient (or imagined) enemies, for the First City had grown up around its literal beginning: the hot spot, together with the gardens that surrounded it, formed one-third of the triune city center. 

Harvests were held often in Iacon, at least once a decacycle and often more frequently than that. They did not let their newlings languish in the darkness. Primus might lay at the center of the world, but His gift of life only flourished under the sun. And of course, in the First City, Iacon City, the capital of Iacon, it was easy to gather the clerics required to cast the harvest ritual, the Coming Into The Light, as often as need be.

This cycle, as per the signs, was a prime one for harvest, and Optimus Prime took his place among the circle to call forth the waiting sparks. It was a circle he had seen change many times over many vorn, faces and frames changing as clerics moved from temple to temple, but everyone here was a familiar, welcome sight.

He did miss, however, the face of one he knew to be in the city, but now was not the time to address that sorrow.

Now was the time of worship, joy, and welcome. 

As Prime, he led the congregation as they chanted. Slowly the sun rose, driving back the shadows of fear, madness, and evil, to reveal the wonders Primus had crafted from His own flesh, and the civilization His children had made. Not that much of it was physically visible from where they stood. Facing west, with the sun at his back — Prime, summoner of the Light — Optimus couldn’t even see the palace and temple grounds that made up the rest of the triune city center. He knew, though, that they rose high into the sky, reaching for and gleaming in the sunlight. What he could see, reaching and rising over the decorative walls of the hot spot, were the crystal gardens of Iacon. Less extensive and lavish than the gardens of Praxus, they were no less beautiful in their way. Every crystal had been chosen for perfection, for its contribution to the whole composition, rather than to show off any individual specimen.

The chanting continued until, at last, as dawn faded into morning and the sky brightened, the sunlight fell onto the carefully maintained grounds of the hot spot itself. 

White, raked gravel covered the subtle swells of the development capsules resting just beneath the surface. Under the influence of the harvesting ritual, several of those gentle mounds glowed to Prime’s sight, marking those who were ready to leave the warm embrace of Primus and step out into the world. One, two, three… four? No, three. The fourth was close, but not quite there yet. She was finishing her final dream before waking. The others’ sparks were on the edge of consciousness, reaching out to be harvested.

None of them were glowing with  _ destiny  _ though. Just life. 

That both relieved and tore at Optimus. Those with destinies that could be seen from the very first moment were rare, but in times of war they were also needed, and should be more common. There were old stories of harvests where each and every mech dug up that cycle had been destined for greatness, though not all had been able to bear the burden in the end. It was somewhat worrying that there had been none since Hot Rod’s harvest, several vorn ago, in these increasingly troubled times. Arcee was going to be a war-Prime, after all. She was not yet ascended, but the dark clouds of battle were already gathered above Kaon, poised to spread out over all the known lands. She would have need of such heroes, but they would not come from this harvest.

With that knowledge, Prime signaled the others to recite the shorter liturgy to its completion. The longer incantations over each individual before opening the capsules weren’t needed this time. 

When the ritual reached its peak, Optimus channeled the divine energy the assembled clerics had called, bestowing its blessing on the three newlings. They were ready.

That one — the one closest to the south wall. He should be first.

Never a Prime afraid to get his hands a little dusty, Optimus went over himself while the next two most senior clerics fanned out to attend to the others. He carefully avoided the smaller swells of gravel that indicated gestating cybercats, turbodogs, and zap ponies just beneath the clean white gravel. If any of them were ready, they would be dug up by prospective parents after nightfall, or maybe by a youngster looking for a pet later in the cycle. 

He knelt next to the glowing mound and brushed away the smooth white pebbles to reveal the newling. The gestation sac was thin, soft, rubbery, and perfectly clear, allowing Optimus to see every detail of the mech inside. He was going to be perfectly white, with some darker accents in grey or blue. Long and leggy as Arcee was, it looked like Primus had bestowed on him a Praxan-like helm decoration and a pair of tiny winglets. Not large enough to count as doorwings and thus offend Praxan sensibilities over the uniqueness of their frametype, but still obviously Praxan influenced. Such a strong,  _ visible _ manifestation of their alliance, and before the marriage had been made official… It was a good omen, especially for something that had been so fraught with uncertainty only a vorn and a half ago.

Knives were never used for this task. Instead, they had special ceremonial shears with rounded points, so as not to risk damaging the newlings. Optimus cut the development capsule as swiftly as he could, going from the newling’s head to his feet in a single swift stroke. Slime gushed from the sac, covering his hands and flowing out to touch the Prime’s feet. Even wet, the gravel he had grown in did not darken.

Bright green optics flickered on for the very first time.

“Welcome to the Light, little one,” Optimus rumbled softly.

The newling stared at him, shivering minutely. Awe, shock, cold, any or all of the above; Optimus didn’t know, but the attendants coming forward were trained to welcome them all with blankets and washcloths and open arms.

As they fussed, cooed, and trilled to stave off any crying or tantrums, Optimus continued his part in the ritual. Touching the newling’s forehead, caressing his delicate grey chevron, he whispered the final words of the divination spell, asking Primus to show him what this young life had come into the world to do and to be. 

The answer didn’t form in his mind or in his vision, so much as escape his vocalizer outside his control. “He will be an architect,” he proclaimed to the young mech’s attendants. 

Thus this newling’s path was set.

His own attendants, swarming up to him as Optimus backed away to make room, just had washcloths. Primus forbid His chosen Prime spend even a nanoklik with capsule slime on his feet or hands — or so the priests felt. Optimus was fairly certain it didn’t actually bother Primus. It certainly didn’t bother him. The ritual had left him too tired to protest, though, even if he’d had a mind to. He had not rebelled against the expectations of church propriety since he was Arcee’s age, almost a century ago.

He was not the only one feeling the backlash from the spell. Channeling the divine was no easy task, and, as the remaining newlings’ fates were announced and the magic released the casters in the circle, some of them collapsed in exhaustion from the strain. Including more clerics, and more experienced ones, in the ritual could ease the collective burden to a degree, but this was the reason why, even here in the heart of Iacon, there was always a full cycle between harvests — minimum.

For Optimus, the fatigue was another reminder of just who wasn’t here to assist as he had in the past.

As soon as the three new mechs had been taken away to be instructed in the basics of Iacon’s language, then matched with their destined mentors, the Prime made his way slowly to the Halls of Healing. Not to any of the main Halls, no, but to a tiny annex that was only technically part of the temple.

The little chapel was cramped. Crowded. Its primary caretaker was too fastidious for it to be neglected and dirty, but there was a feeling of clutter nonetheless. Cluttered thoughts, Optimus felt. Instead of airy space for peaceful contemplation, this chapel was filled to the brim with thoughts, worries, and doubts.

And there was the worrier himself, together with a supplicant. Optimus stood back and watched Ratchet talking to a newling — not one from the harvest he’d just come from, but a previous harvest, perhaps as recently as a few cycles ago. Ratchet had a frame that would have seen him do well in the army, but he wore the red symbols of a healer-priest. Once they had gleamed on his frame, but now the vibrant paint was scratched and chipped. He was carefully examining a limp kitten while he spoke with the newling. Optimus couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the young femme’s distress was clear, as was the soothing healer’s manner Ratchet had once been so well known for. 

After a few kliks, Ratchet turned off his blue optics and clearly intoned a prayer. The kitten glowed briefly, then its optics brightened. 

The newling was overjoyed and leaped forward to encompass Ratchet and the kitten both in an excited hug. Ratchet extricated himself, handing the kitten back to its owner in the process. He started talking again and the newling nodded along, agreeing with every one of Ratchet’s admonishments and instructions before taking off without a care in the world. 

Ratchet locked troubled optics with Optimus as the newling ran past him to the exit. With a sigh, the healer didn’t otherwise acknowledge the Prime and looked away to clean up.

Optimus  _ was _ Prime however, and this was still the Temple of Primus. He did not need an invitation. “I see that, despite your claims to the contrary, you still believe enough to heal. We missed you at the harvest, old friend.”

“Mechanimals, Orion,” Ratchet said, calling Optimus by the name he’d been given after his harvesting, rather than the one he’d been given upon becoming Prime. “I can still manage enough  _ faith,” _ he almost spat the word, "to do that much. Nothing more. And I refuse to participate in the farce that is assigning newlings to their places.”

It was a heretical statement, but Ratchet’s faith had been unraveling for many, many vorn. Optimus had tried unsuccessfully to prevent his deterioration, leaving him with the uncomfortable knowledge that something would have to be done if he spoke of his heresies to anyone else. Fortunately, if anything about the situation could be called fortunate, Ratchet had chosen to sequester himself away in his little veterinary clinic and stew himself in his own doubts. It had enabled Optimus to hope, to look for a way to help his friend find his faith again rather than being forced to take action against him.

The problem was that Ratchet no longer believed in miracles; no longer even believed the harvest ritual was magic, or if it was magic, that it was still farcical. Optimus had never gotten a straight answer from him on the matter. Perhaps Ratchet himself didn’t know what he did, and did not, believe. Perhaps it was those thoughts that cluttered up his clinic as he searched for answers through prayer, all while cursing the words he was saying. That Ratchet had managed to heal that kitten was the first positive sign Optimus had seen in vorn.

Ratchet, obviously, did not see it the same way. “Is there a  _ reason,  _ besides rubbing it in my face, that you came down here?” he asked, armor bristling.

“I wanted to see if anything had changed for you,” Optimus said quietly, looking around at the medical supplies — the bandages and medicines, welding torches, needles and cords and tape, the replacement parts — that no other clinic in the First City had or needed. Some of the temples farther afield, the ones that were visited on a schedule by circuit-clerics and otherwise ministered to by lay-priests, yes, they had such things. Prime had seen similar clinics on his visits to Praxus during the lengthy treaty negotiations, even. But not here, at the very spark of Primus’ worship… except here, in Ratchet’s domain. For all that Optimus had just witnessed proof that he could still call upon Primus to heal, he must not do so often, even on mechanimals. “I harvested a young mech today. He looked almost Praxan and will be a great architect. Perhaps one of the greatest.”

“And if he isn’t?” There was pain on Ratchet’s face. Pain and confusion and bitterness. It hurt Optimus to see it. Ratchet had loved the newlings once.“You say he—” He made a fist, clenching his fingers as he bit back the words. “I’m glad the harvest was successful, but there’s a reason I keep my distance.”

“I know you have your reasons.” Realistically, if Ratchet could not put his faith in Primus, he could not contribute meaningfully to the ritual. Optimus had just hoped that if his old friend would come and watch, if he could see the magic, the miracle, of it all and just let it in… “Though you’ve never explained them to me.”

Optimus wished he would. Primus forgave, and if Ratchet would only  _ tell _ him what gnawed at him so… 

“There are reasons for that too,” Ratchet grumbled, opting again, for silence. “It’s nothing you want to hear, even if I knew how to articulate it. Which I don’t. Still.” He sighed, anger bleeding out into tired frustration. “So I guess the answer to your question is no, nothing’s changed.”

That answer wasn’t unexpected, but it sorrowed Optimus’ spark. “I had hoped contemplation and prayer might have been enough for you.” A hope he’d held for vorn and was finally having to admit had been in vain.

“Well, they aren’t, though not for lack of either, I assure you. Contemplation and prayer are practically all I’m good for anymore, for all the good they’ve been for me.”

“Not all. The loss of faith hasn’t taken away your ability to be a healer.” Not a healer like those in the temple, true, but in no longer relying on magic, Ratchet had accumulated a wealth of other skills. “And if prayer is not what you need, perhaps a purpose is.” That was how Optimus chose to think of this. He believed it with all his spark. “I’m sending you to the Darkwatch Pass garrison.”

Ratchet stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re what?”

“Sending you to the Darkwatch Pass garrison.” It was a significant, but lesser used transport route through the mountains and into Kaon. All of the Iaconi garrisons along the Kaonex border were being reinforced, and they needed clerics to tend to the soldiers’ frames and spirits. In particular, they were needed to oversee the cleansing rituals that they would no doubt frequently require, not just so they would not carry the contamination of killing back to the populace, but for their own peace of mind. Optimus would like to see Ratchet take up such tasks, that the change of scenery and duty would help alleviate his doubts.

Obviously, Ratchet wasn’t of the same mind. “You really think shipping me off into the mountains is going to help anything? Anyone? I’m not qualified for that sort of posting.” The admission hurt him, Optimus could see it. He had been more than qualified in the past to single-handedly heal scores of even serious, battlefield injuries. To bring even those on the edge of death back by the dozens, with nothing more than a wave of divine energy.

“I would argue that you are uniquely qualified to minister to soldiers who often experience blows to their faith.” The temple libraries were full of writings from soldiers in wars past, struggling to reconcile Primus with the reality of fighting in His name.

“Orion, I just told you I don’t have any answers for myself! How am I supposed to help anyone else find their faith?”

Optimus sighed. “You will find a way, or you may not. I don’t know how to help you, my friend.” That admission hurt him. Primus was the ultimate arbiter of fate, and as Prime, he was His agent here on Cybertron, and yet he could not divine Ratchet’s fate. “But staying here is doing nothing for you. Your answers are not in this temple. Perhaps they are to be found in the struggles of others, or in something else entirely. I am sending you to find them.”

“Sending me _away,_ in other words,” Ratchet huffed with a look that was just shy of accusatory. “Whether I find answers for myself or anyone else, it doesn’t hurt to have me out of your plating. Might as well ship me off me to a cloistered order to rust away in a cell. I’d offend fewer sensibilities there.”

Optimus sighed again. “There have been a few who have suggested that.” He stamped out such talk where he could, but while they had no concrete evidence of Ratchet’s heresy, the Archbishops were troubled by Ratchet’s withdrawal. This was not the first time they had suggested he “relocate” since he had barricaded himself inside his veterinary clinic. Optimus was Prime, but even he could not easily oppose the wholly unified pressure of the Archbishops, and they wanted the potential disgrace out of Iacon before the wedding.

Ratchet snorted. “I know there have been. More than a few, I’d wager.” High up as he’d been in the clergy, Ratchet was no stranger to the politics of the temple. “It’s more than I deserve that you let me stay here for so long,” he said, gesturing around them. “For which I truly am grateful, by the way.”

“I would not be a proper Prime, an example for my people to follow, if I turned you away in your time of need,” Optimus said gently. “You are hurt, and I wanted to give you the time to heal if I could provide neither advice nor magic.”

“I wish you had been able to, Orion.” Ratchet’s voice caught slightly on the depth of emotion he was struggling with, had been struggling with for so long. “I really do.”

“As do I. I fought this, and now I loathe the self-centeredness of the timing,” Optimus held out his hand in invitation to take it, both in blessing and in friendship, “but I do believe there is healing out there for you yet. If not at Darkwatch itself, then somewhere else out there in the world.”

“At least one of us has faith. Of the two of us, it’s probably better that it’s you.” Ratchet took his hand with a wry smile. Acceptance. “Whatever’s out there, healing or nothing,” and it was perfectly clear which he thought was more likely, “perhaps I have held on to a place I no longer belong long enough.”

Optimus traced the symbols for Primus, fate, and healing on Ratchet’s plating with his free hand, first on his hands, then over his spark before finishing on his helm — hands, spark, and mind, the three great gifts Primus bestowed on each mech before sending them out into the Light. “You will always have a place here,” he said firmly as he finished the blessing. “As long as I am Prime, none who are injured — no matter  _ what _ their injury may be — will be turned away from this temple.”

Ratchet’s field wobbled. The blessing brought him more conflict than peace, but the familiarity and friendship of the motions were a comfort in spite of his doubts. “Thank you. If I— nevermind. Thank you,” he repeated.

Optimus noticed the hesitation and wished he would elaborate, but he could not force him to speak. Confession was not the route of every doubter anyway. “Walk in Primus’ Light,” he said instead. “I will give you time to pack. You go with the Seventh Luminary Infantry units.”

“Seventh Luminary Infantry. When is their…  _ our _ departure?”

“Four cycles, after morning prayers.” The last unit to leave until after the wedding. It was the most time Optimus had been able to squeeze from the gears of politics.

Ratchet nodded. “I’ll make it work.” Optimus followed his gaze as he looked around the clinic. There was a lot of stuff. “Somehow.”

“I can ensure some of the healer-initiates are sent to help,” the larger mech offered. “They should broaden their knowledge base.” No one could cast healing magics indefinitely, and there were tales of even Primes — war-Primes — healing themselves into unconsciousness or worse under the strain of so many injured in combat. The young clerics would need to become familiar with the tools of medicine. “It will be good for them.”

“Oh, definitely,” Ratchet agreed. “But will they work with me?”

Optimus smiled. “Since when have you been unable to keep mere initiates in line?” He had been one of them, once, a blue and red, near-newling rushing to obey when Ratchet had snapped at him. The memories were vivid.

“True.” Ratchet tried to smile confidently but it looked a little shaky. Optimus made a mental note to remind the helpers that this was an opportunity to learn, and there would be consequences if they acted otherwise. Ratchet had troubles enough as it was.

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	2. Part One

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####  Present

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> Dearest Prowl,
> 
> I write knowing there is no way for this or any communications to get to you until after the new vorn when you come back to the mainland, but I find myself in dire need of an expert on Polyhexian magic. One who speaks a mainland tongue, preferably. I will endeavor to meet you in Hightower so that you do not need to leave either your duty to your country or your beloved, but I am, as I hope you are, aware of how difficult that may be to arrange. 
> 
> Not knowing what you already know of the Kaonex rebel uprising, please forgive any repeat information as I summarize the situation. Numerous accusations would have the rebel faction in league with demons and involved in the summoning thereof on the battlefield. The observations of our priests sent to investigate have, to the satisfaction of the Council, confirmed these accusations, effectively obligating Iacon to intervene in Kaon’s civil war. I, however, am curious about the possibility of an alternative explanation for the unfamiliar spells and powers being fielded. Several aspects of the descriptions that were sent back are reminiscent to me of the duels I had the opportunity to participate in with Jazz, but I lack the expertise to make a definitive determination on any actual relation.
> 
> Enclosed are copies of those reports not considered confidential, detailing the ‘demonic magic’ in use in Kaon. I would consider it a favor if you could find the time to review and research them upon your return so that we can discuss them when we meet.
> 
> Silverstreak has likely told you this already in his letters: he and I have bonded. It was a beautiful ceremony and we would both have loved to have you there, but I completely understand why you could not attend. If ours is not a match pre-ordained by Primus, then at the very least it will be without emotional hardship for either of us. I grow fonder of your sibling every cycle. He reminds me of you. Alas, our honeymoon has been unavoidably replaced by a military tour of both our countries’ borders with Kaon. Your sibling has seen combat and acquitted himself well. I admit to sometimes finding it difficult to find the balance between protecting him not enough and overly so, but the latter is a mistake I will not make again. I will not allow myself to become a burden or an unwanted shield to him.
> 
> It is my supreme hope that the vorn has treated you, your bonded, and your clan well. I’m afraid I know no more specific hopes or blessings to wish upon you, save that Primus keep you safe from illness and injury. You will have to tell me what is more appropriate later.
> 
> Again, I appreciate the inevitable delay in our communications. Nevertheless, I await your response.
> 
> Your friend always,
> 
> Arcee

Prowl had read through Arcee’s letter twice upon first receiving it before contemplating its contents. It had been a lot to process, barely a cycle back on the mainland. She did remember, from when she had last been in Praxus, the rumor that the rebels were using demonic magic. She even remembered that the Iaconi ambassador had thought it credible enough to ask for confirmation from the church. The rest, however, was new information to her.

As no further communication had ever materialized to confirm a meeting in Hightower with the Iaconi princess, and with a summons from the king to present herself in the capital besides, Prowl had departed swiftly. She reviewed the reports Arcee had provided — obviously copies, and incomplete, and all written in Arcee’s hand — while she drove from the port city on the coast to the inland City of Praxus. Between the information itself, accumulated from second-hand descriptions from mechs in fear of their lives, and the missing sections, it was hard to get a clear picture of what might have prompted Arcee to think these “demon-possessed” mechs were like Jazz. These accounts didn’t read like the reports of soldiers and survivors of Polyhexian attacks…

…But they also didn’t read like they weren't either. 

Leaving behind that stupid carriage had been an excellent idea. Unburdened by it, she and her small entourage had made excellent time, accomplishing in only two decacycles a journey that usually took at least three. 

“You’d think they’d be used to you ditching it by now,” her spirit guide meowed from her shoulder as they stood at the gates of the city. The guards had sent someone ahead before they’d set out at dawn to announce their impending arrival, but their escort through the city had yet to arrive. “They shouldn’t be this out of sorts over us being back already.”

“We’re not in Polyhex anymore,” Prowl reminded her as much as herself. Had they been traveling in a carriage with a full complement of servants from their last campsite, they wouldn’t be here for several joors more, in the late afternoon. As it was, it was still mid morning. “Schedules and timetables aren’t flexible here.”

Sundance snickered. “What are schedules and timetables?”

Prowl sighed. That was, when you got right down to it, the core of the problem. Polyhex didn’t bother with either; things happened when someone — either a priest-mage, or someone else who everyone agreed had enough experience to know what they were talking about — decided they needed to and enough people agreed that it got done. After a vorn living with her bonded’s people, Prowl was out of practice at following schedules.

Finally, the guards had everything in order. The gates opened and a new escort of the city guard came out. The captain — someone Prowl didn’t recognize — looked over the group hesitantly, and his gaze lingered on Prowl, standing there — mostly — patiently, with no carriage or servants in sight, her tent and the other things she’d brought inland bundled up at her feet. 

“Captain Remix,” he said formally after the awkward pause. “Will you entrust your charge to my care?”

“If the Imperial Princess approves, we would appreciate the help.”

“I am in your capable hands,” Prowl intoned, grateful that this particular exchange was a short one.

“Right. Of course, do you have…” he looked around like the missing carriage, or a baggage train would materialize if he checked just one more time for it. “Anything,” he finished, bewildered.

“Only what you see before you.”

“Right.” He gestured for one of the soldiers to go ahead and take the bundle of camping supplies. “I’ll send for a carriage.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Prowl said, bracing for the familiar argument. “I am perfectly capable of driving on my own tires.”

“A thousand apologies, Imperial Princess, but you can’t enter the city as you are.”

“It’s a formality, Captain. One I am willing, and would, in fact, prefer, to forgo.”

He looked around again, as though the carriage might have appeared from thin air while they spoke. “Please, Imperial Princess, don’t make me—”

“How long will it take for a carriage to get here? And after that, to travel with it to the palace? Why spend all that time when we could simply drive there?”

“Protocol,” Sundance sneezed subtly.

“There are… concerns,” the captain said slowly, diplomatically.

Prowl frowned. “Concerns?” About what? “I was not informed of any concerns while in Hightower.”

“I do not know what has been communicated to Lord Ultra Magnus,” the guard told her. “I only know what my orders are, and they are to bring you through the city in a carriage, Imperial Princess.”

_ “Specifically, _ in a carriage.” Prowl sighed. Someone had probably decided to include that in an attempt to head off her “ridiculous” ideas about driving herself around, and whoever that someone was, the captain was very anxious to avoid disobeying him. At this rate, it would probably take as long to convince him not to call a carriage as it would for one to arrive. “Alright then. If you must.”

He sent one of his subordinates zipping into the city with a wave of his hand. “I apologize again, Imperial Princess,” he said as the rest of the escort set up a perimeter around her just offset from the road. “I did not anticipate the need for either a pavilion or refreshments.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t as much of a hardship as he thought it was for her. The sky was clear, the sun was warm, and the breeze was cool. There was still snow in the mountains, but not in the city, and she was perfectly comfortable waiting outside. She couldn’t imagine feeling the same degree of claustrophobia and restlessness that some of her clanmates had felt during the cramped storm season in the caves, but it was a relief to be out under the sky in the mild weather. As far as refreshments went, “I fueled sufficiently this morning.” 

And that meal had consisted of the much more densely energetic liquid energon that was the staple fuel on the mainland, not hupa, the mixture of fuel and water and metal and crystalline fillers that was made available to the whole clan in Polyhex. Hupa that had been more fillers and water than fuel this past storm season.

If there was a pang in her tank, it was minor. It was nothing like  _ real _ hunger. That Prowl would very much like to never feel again, but right now she could easily wait until dinner.

“Thank you for your consideration and understanding, Imperial Princess.”

Consideration and understanding, maybe, but only the outward semblance of patience and acceptance. So many unnecessary complications everywhere she turned! Knowing the steps of the dance didn’t make going through the motions any fun.

“Just imagine if Jazz was here with us,” Sundance meowed with a pointed look up at the rooftops. “She’d be halfway to the palace already.”

“Or hiding in a trunk,” Prowl meowed back. She herself wasn’t immune to the sheer amount of  _ noise _ the city made anymore. There had been times in Hightower where she rather would have liked to hide under the carriage seat too, and she, unlike Jazz, had spent her life until this point thinking that noise level to be normal. It wasn’t like Polyhex had been  _ quiet. _ She had begun her visit unable to recharge properly because of the constant sounds of animals, people, and wind chimes, in fact. Now, however, she recognized that had been because of the unfamiliarity of the sounds, rather than their sheer volume. By comparison, the city was a constant drone, hum, and clatter. The sounds of thousands of mechs, amplified by the strange echoes off of buildings — an inescapable backdrop that swallowed smaller sounds and muted everything with noise.

She caught the guards eyeing her sideways for mewing like a cat. That much, clearly, was audible to them despite her attempt to be discreet.

“Get used to it or stop talking to me,” Sundance advised. “One or the other, as long as you don’t stop talking to me.”

Prowl snickered and ignored the resulting odd looks from the guards.

Finally, the requested carriage arrived. Prowl watched them stow her bundle, still feeling awkward about not taking care of the task herself after a vorn of being solely responsible for her own belongings, then climbed inside without complaint. The noise would be worse as they went through the city before reaching the palace, so at least there was one advantage to the insistence that she put walls between herself and the world.

She was glad no one made a spectacle of her arrival. That meant there were no trumpets, or cheering, or crowds throwing streamers… Just the general clatter of the relatively discreet arrival of a minor noble to Praxus’ spring court season.

“I hope we don’t have to stay here too long. Everyone here treats me like I’m a cat,” Sundance complained. “And Silverstreak is busy being bonded over in Iacon and can’t even give me treats.”

“You are a cat, and you don’t need more treats. But I know what you mean.” Sundance was  _ more  _ than a cat, just as Prowl was  _ more  _ than a Praxan princess, but you wouldn’t know it by how the king and court stuck to those narrow roles. Maybe it wasn’t entirely their fault, but it was still annoying. 

The lack of spectacle also meant they traveled through the maze of roads through the City of Praxus much more quickly than Prowl had expected, though still slower than she could have gone on her own wheels!

They paused to wait for the gates to the castle open, then moved into the courtyard. They didn’t stop there, though, so she surmised the King wasn’t waiting in his throne room for her. Given the unexpected nature of her arrival, that wasn’t all that surprising… but the detour they took around the grounds all the way to one of the lesser known, little used entrances roused her suspicions. 

Sundance picked up on her mood, tail flicking nervously. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” 

They came to a stop and a guard opened up her door, offering politely to help her down from the carriage. This was another guard too, a palace guard rather one of the ones who’d escorted her through the city. Another already had her bundle of camping equipment and was leaving with it.

“Is that being taken to my rooms?” she asked, accepting the hand down on bewildered autopilot. “What is going on?”

“Your things will be taken care of with utmost diligence, your highness,” the mech didn’t-answer. “We’re to escort you to your rooms. I’m told your attendants are waiting.”

An escort. To ensure she didn’t wander anywhere she wasn’t supposed to since it couldn’t be that they thought she’d get lost. Or for protection? Was she in danger? Something was definitely up, but the best way to find out what would be to go along with things for now. “Excellent. It will be nice to freshen up after such a long journey.”

She wasn’t sure if she was imagining the guard’s doors dip in relief. 

She also wasn’t sure if she should feel relieved or slighted that her escort only consisted of three guards. On the one hand, though it was excessive for the  _ princess _ to be accompanied by guards at all times, it wasn’t the full escort of someone who was under arrest. They obviously didn’t expect her to resist. On the other, if she  _ had _ decided to resist,  _ three _ guards would not have been nearly enough. It was almost an insult! Jazz certainly would have taken it as such. 

On the  _ other _ other hand, they could legitimately be for her protection, which she had to suppress her initial reaction to as well. She was a  _ warrior, _ not a damsel who hid in her hammock during an attack!

The halls of the castle were almost suspiciously empty. They had been cleared of visitors or servants before bringing the princess through.

“They don’t want anyone to know we’re here.” Sundance was crouched low on her shoulder, her posture defensive. “Don’t like.”

Prowl didn’t like it either. Not knowing whether she was under threat or presumed to be a threat made it hard to narrow down what they were dealing with. “I’m sure we’ll find out what’s going on soon.”

The guards looked at her. Prowl rolled her optics. Yes, she was meowing to her cat!

It wasn’t a long walk to her rooms. Climbing the stairs had never fatigued her even as a pure scholar, and they were almost ludicrously easy now after so physically active a vorn in the islands. When they arrived at the rooms, she spotted still more guards stationed at the ends of the hallway, at the head of the stairs, and at her door which he opened to admit her without a word. 

“We’ll leave you here, Imperial Princess,” the mech who’d helped her out of the carriage said respectfully.

“Thank you,” she told him, then calmly walked through the door into what amounted to one of the world’s most lavish prison cells.

She recognized the suite, of course. It was the same as she had left it. As Sundance leaped down and began prowling around for new smells (and probably glitchmice), however, Prowl felt as though she was seeing it with new optics.

She didn’t get much of a chance to dwell on her new vision though. The promised attendants were waiting, and one of them stepped forward to bid her follow them to the bath. With a sigh, she followed. If she wasn’t expected anywhere immediately, she would have preferred to recharge first, but she had a feeling the attendants would be as difficult to dismiss as the carriage had been.

She  _ still _ had that image of the servants as a flock of kokako in her mind.

The attendants were friendly, but basically useless when it came to finding out anything about what was going on. Whatever the big secret was, they weren’t in the know. They were, however, incredibly efficient at scrubbing away every last speck of dust and dirt on her frame, including several places Prowl would rather have taken care of herself. They didn’t mean anything by it, but by Polyhexian standards, some of what they were doing was awfully intimate between mechs who were essentially strangers. She’d gotten used to at least  _ knowing _ who was helping her with her washing and her paint.

_ Spirits and gods, _ at least they didn’t insist on redoing her paint. She’d already been through that once in Hightower.

It was a distinct relief when she was finally able to chase them off, though they left with a promise that someone would “check in with her soon to see if there was anything you require.” Aside from fuel, the only things Prowl wanted were answers, and she could think of a better way to get them than begging someone to talk to her.

“Sundance?”

“Hmm?” she hummed from where she’d escaped above the baths, perched on the decorative molding. She was cleaning herself, showing off the fact that she had managed to dodge the attendants for her bath, though a couple had suggested Prowl call her pet down to be cleaned properly. She had not done so.

Prowl smiled. “How do you feel about a little spying?”

“Am I spying on the kitchens?”

“I need you to spy on the court. If that happens to take you through the kitchens…” Prowl let the sentence trail off. It wasn’t like it would do any good to forbid her. “They obviously want to keep my return quiet, but now that I’m here someone will have to make time to talk to me. It’ll be better if we know what the angle is before they spring it on us.”

“Fine.” The cat sighed, sounding very put-upon, but as she leaped down from the molding, Prowl could tell she was feeling more gleeful than anything else. Sundance did love sticking her nose into everyone’s business.

The door didn’t open when they tried it — locked, from the outside — so Prowl let Sundance out a window. As the cat slipped out onto the sill and scrambled down to an open window a few floors below, Prowl reveled in the cool mountain air and warm morning sunshine. Apparently being inside the palace was making her more claustrophobic than she’d realized, because she felt much better for the opportunity to  _ breathe. _

Going around and opening all the other windows in her suite made things a little better, but it was just so  _ still  _ inside. The lack of other people, of the various activities that went on at all joors, only served to emphasize how idle she was now, and it felt wrong. She should be husking ohe, weaving baskets, making beads, crushing chuno…  _ something! _

Restless, Prowl went into her study in search of something to do. There wasn’t anything here that would help her answer Arcee’s question, but many of the Galifarian reference materials she’d been missing while working on the log book she’d found were. Of course, said log book was currently with her other things, which the guards had promised to take care of, but had neglected to deliver to her rooms. Still, there were things she could do with just the memory of it, and she started pulling books off the shelves with purpose. She wanted to put the warship  _ Skylark _ and, more importantly, the military expedition Captain Auroram had been a part of, into context with the rest of Galifar’s history.

She did not pull down a blank journal to work in. She wanted to, but she had become wary of recording her thoughts for others to find and read lately. The  _ Skylark’s _ log proved such artifacts could last far,  _ far _ longer than their writers had ever intended… and have unforeseen consequences.

Still. Writing, she could easily say, was something she loved about Praxus and had sorely missed. Learning that Polyhexian “runes” were nothing more than a sparse lexicon of ideographs had been both a disappointment and incredibly frustrating, and the lack of even a word for books meant that she’d been living in an environment with absolutely no way to look things up for herself. Sure, the members of her clan were almost always willing to answer her questions, but they didn’t always have the time — or knowledge, context, or vocabulary — to help her. Especially since, after her reputation for being kind, considerate, and unnecessarily fussy about dirt and sand, she’d become known for being curious and asking  _ all  _ the questions.

She did  _ not _ miss the dirt and sand. Or the ash, soot, and smoke.

Thinking of ash made her shiver, like Keahi’s rock-ash was once again settling on her plating. She said a quick prayer to the goddess of fire, then doused the candle flame in her reading lamp. The sunlight streaming through the open windows was more than bright enough to continue reading, and she didn’t want a reminder, however small, of that disaster hanging over her research now.

It was immensely comforting to see snow on all of the mountain peaks in the distance.

One book led to another, each adding to a continually expanding semicircle as she built a visual timeline rather than writing one down. Not having note pages was just as well, since the occasional breeze had a habit of turning pages, and there weren’t any handy rocks laying around to weigh them down. Prowl had a couple of weights on her desk designed to combat that problem, but there weren’t nearly enough of them. Ultimately she wound up using empty glass spell component jars, surprising herself with just how many there were when she looked in the cabinet for the first time. Glass was  _ expensive!  _ Especially so much glass, colored exactly the same shade of very light green, shaped into identical small jars. In Polyhex, those shelves of jars represented the kind of fortune that her pearl necklaces represented in Praxus.

After that, the dissonance between how she remembered her rooms and how she saw them now was impossible to shake, and she ended up, well,  _ prowling _ around her suite, fighting the sense of uncanniness, before she could settle again. Jazz’s initial reaction to her “cave” made so much sense now that Prowl could see it similarly to the way her beloved did. It wasn’t  _ just _ the opulence, as she’d thought when she’d seen Jazz’s reaction. It was too clean, too cut off — from other people, from the crystals and mechanimals of the wild, from the  _ sea... _

She wished Jazz was here with her now, but at the same time was grateful that she’d agreed to stay behind. Enforced idleness like this would have had Jazz climbing the walls — literally. She’d witnessed enough wall climbing in the fire-riverbed caves to know that for a fact. Add in the surprisingly abundant handholds to the various things in her suite that she’d never noticed before and it was a wonder Jazz hadn’t spent  _ more _ time showing off her climbing skills! Prowl had a brief impulse to try a few of the trickier climbs she could see right now, just to see if she could. Climbing was important!

Having a roof over her head made it hard to judge how much time had passed while she was putting together her timeline. It took her embarrassingly long to remember there was a large glass water clock that was filled at the same time every cycle she could look at to tell her which joor it was. She’d fallen out of the habit of looking at it. In Polyhex, there was no such thing as a clock.

At least that meant she wasn’t getting impatient for either Sundance’s return or for something else to happen. Restless, yes. She wanted (at the very least) her bead and basket making things to occupy her hands while she read, but she wasn’t cursing the lack of a schedule. Things would happen when they happened.

She didn’t know if it was due to absorption in her reading or distraction from the dissonance, but somehow she missed Sundance’s return. When she saw her familiar, the cat was just sitting on the edge of her ragged circle of books and improvised weights, watching her curiously and swishing her tail.

“I can’t help you with a summoning ritual,” she meowed, crouching down to sniff at the nearest jar. “There’s nothing in here.”

Prowl laughed. “It’s not a summoning circle. The jars are just to hold the pages in place.”

“Could pack them up and take them back. Then you’ll be able to trade Wheeljack for  _ all _ of the scented paint,” she yowled gleefully, pushing one of the jars over. It rolled off the book and over the rug. Sundance watched it intently until it rolled to a stop.

“That’s not a bad thought,” Prowl said, waiting for the inevitable moment when the cat would attack the perfectly stationary object. “Not all of them,” since there was no way she could carry that many, “but certainly some.” Her clan did need all of the help she could give it, after all, and if she wasn’t technically raiding right now, she could still acquire many of the same things without even leaving her rooms. “I wonder what else I could bring back…” She was tempted by the quilts and other bedding, but the fact was that they’d be soaked through almost instantly and would probably never fully dry out, making them useless. Towels would be better, and could double as protection for the jars in transit. She had a trunk she could pack them in, a sturdy one that would be useful for storing fuel or other belongings in after it had served its purpose.

Sundance reached out and pushed the jar with her paw, rolling it gently…

_ Pounce! _

“I think it’s dead,” Prowl told her after watching her roll around with it for a klik. The only reason it wasn’t full of holes by now was it was made of glass. “What did you find while you were out?”

“Politics,” the cat sneezed derisively.

“I could have guessed  _ that,”  _ Prowl huffed. “I meant specifics. Details. How worried do I need to be?”

Sundance shrugged, fluffing up all of her plating and then laying it down flat again. “Something’s going on over in Iacon, with Silverstreak. Something not-good. Iacon declared open hostilities against the Kaonex rebels sometime in the last vorn, but Praxus wasn’t doing anything but defending our borders and supporting Iaconi troops… right up until two months ago. A few decacycles after the wedding, Praxus started mobilizing for war. The nobles are all pledging their troops — both those sworn to Praxus in their lands, as well as their own personal troops — to the crown.”

“Oh no.” The king had wanted to stay out of that mess! Sending troops across the border was an escalation Praxus had been fighting to avoid, but the finalization of their treaty with Iacon through Arcee and Silverstreak’s bonding must have forced his hand. And for something not-good to be happening with the prince… “I hope he’s alright.”

Her familiar rubbed up against her, offering comfort. “He gives the best treats.”

“He does. He likes you.” Silverstreak had been one of the best with Sundance the last time she’d been in the capital. “Perhaps that’s why they’re being cautious and secretive with me.” If they were at war and something had happened to the prince, Praxus might suddenly have need of its princess as something other than a foreign ambassador. Prowl groaned and rubbed Sundance’s audio flaps. “Spirits and gods, I hope not.”

She eyed the door again. Locked or not, it would take just one knock spell to open it… 

No. It was too soon to be thinking something like that.

Well.

It was too soon to  _ do  _ something like that. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that the king wouldn’t be able to clear time for an audience with her on short notice if he was embroiled in wartime administration.

“Prowl?”

“I’m fine,” Prowl told Sundance. “They’ll send someone to summon me eventually, and then we’ll get a full explanation.” And if they  _ didn’t  _ send someone to at least explain the delay by the next cycle, then she would take matters into her own hands.

“The fact that no one’s gossiping about us, or why we’re locked in here, is pretty telling,” Sundance mewed, crawling up onto Prowl’s lap to cuddle. She kneaded Prowl’s thigh plating. “It means whatever reason the king has for treating us like this, he hasn’t told anyone else.”

“Yes, and that’s the part that worries me.” But it also wasn’t something she could do anything about at the moment, other than try not to dwell on it. “Why don’t you help me figure out what would be worth taking with us when we go back while we wait?”

Audio flaps perked up in interest. “We can pack small things  _ inside _ the jars. Like those white-gem doorwing decorations you were forced to wear to that one ball. Those might lure a newling with winglets like Wheeljack’s to Rainclouds.” That, or they’d be pried apart so that the gold could be melted down so it and the diamonds could be used for something else. “It’s not like the clan has much to offer this season.”

“No, it doesn’t.” So much had been left behind in the evacuation due to limited space and the necessity of prioritizing fuel over everything else, and nothing of the village had survived the explosion of fire and rock from the mountain. Most of their treasures had been buried by Keahi, for the goddess to find and dig up later. As far as mortals were concerned, however, they were utterly lost. But she could do something about having shiny things to improve Rainclouds’ chances of attracting and claiming more newlings at, well, hopefully,  _ this _ harvest if she could get back to Hightower with enough time to spare before the end of the season for the three of them to make the trip. If not, then definitely the next harvest. “Let’s do that. Packing things in the jars will make them less likely to break in transit too, as long as we wrap any hard edges.”

She started with the trunk next to her dresser. It just contained more blankets for her berth and she didn’t hesitate to dump them on her mattress to deal with later. If she couldn’t find anything more useful, she could always use the sheets along with some towels to pack the jars so they wouldn’t break. Then she started collecting the jars in question up next to the trunk. For the moment she left her books where they were and focused on the ones she wasn’t currently using as weights.

And all the while she was doing that, Sundance “helpfully” upended her jewelry box to sort through it — and promptly began batting the pieces around the floor like the cat toys they were.

Once, Prowl might have stopped her. Those were not for playing with! But now she didn’t really care if something got lost beneath the berth or lodged under the dresser. Even if she lost one piece of a matched set… well, matching things were a sign of wealth to Polyhexians, but they were hardly necessary, especially as sparkly newling-bribes. So she left her cat to play and picked whatever caught her optic from the slowly scattering pile. 

One jar she filled with things made of gold and another she filled with things made of copper. She didn’t have anything made of tin, and she wasn’t sure what the melting points of the silver alloys used for jewelry were, or if they could be reshaped in a Polyhexian clay and charcoal forge. Besides, silver would tarnish much faster than gold. For gems, she stuck with ones that were large enough to be reset in wrapped wire settings if they were removed from their current ones. No decent Polyhexian would  _ turn down _ the chance to add a necklace set with diamonds the size of grains of sand to their wardrobe, but if the setting broke, gems that small couldn’t be reset using Polyhexian metalworking, and Praxan gemstones couldn’t be ground up with a mere mortar and pestle to be added to paint or alchemical solutions.

“Do you think they’d wear something like this?” Sundance asked, twisting around in a long, decorative maille chain. “It would be good for hanging things on.”

“And catching claws on,” Prowl said, reaching over to unhook a black paw. “And catching on ohe leaves, and rubber weeds, and gods knew what else. Besides,” she examined the links critically, “I think a kokako would be able to pick it apart.”

“Is a little expensive just to use a kokako lure,” Sundance admitted. Dashing off as soon as she was free, the cat chased a magnetic chain under the berth and disappeared. 

Reminded of kokako lures, Prowl pulled a third jar over for active filling: anything shiny that was also broken or cheap that would catch a kokako’s optic. Most of the clan’s kahawai had been a casualty of the disaster. Prowl didn’t even want to consider the damage the pesky birds would do to the boats and attempts to rebuild the village before they were replaced. The first thing she found was a set of loose ribbons from a very early attempt to teach her how to embroider as a newling, but Prowl anticipated there being much more. 

She had a tidy collection put together by the time the light faded enough to pull her out of her task and made her realize that no one had come by to tell her anything.

Or bring her anything to eat. 

The afternoon sun had definitely moved on though. She could feel the heat reflected off the castle’s towers, but there were no longer patches of sunlight on her floor. What time was lunch supposed to be again? It had to have been earlier than  _ now; _ when she got up to actually look out the window, she found it to be  _ late _ afternoon, nearing sunset.

If the guards had actually brought all of her things to her room, she wouldn’t have worried. She had some long hollowed out ohe stalks filled with various things. One had extra spicy fried hexbugs. Another had dried kakaru shavings and powdered chuno, both of which were tasteless but made a good, solid base of fuel that could be flavored with anything. A third ohe stalk box had seed crystals she’d collected en route from Hightower to the capital. As it was though… No. They would bring her a meal eventually. If depriving her of fuel had been the intent, they wouldn’t have put her back into her old suite. The servants were all just busy. 

Prowl had certainly been hungrier.

The reading lamp had to be lit again, and a couple of other lamps besides, for her to continue packing jars. Her first instinct was to cast a light spell — less wasteful and less dangerous than an open flame — but the spell component she needed was in her bag. She really hoped they would bring her things soon, or tell her where they’d been stored so she could get them herself when she was allowed out of her rooms.

Once again though, Sundance being able to sneak outside worked to her advantage. “Would you go catch some glowing hexbugs for me?” Prowl asked, interrupting her cat’s hunt for the elusive shadow on the wall created by the wavering lamplight.

Sundance came to a screeching halt and smacked into the wall. She plunked her aft on the floor a nanoklik later and licked her tail.  _ I meant to do that. _ “Maybe.” She tilted her head to look out the window. “Or maybe I should go spy on the feasting hall.”

“You could do both,” Prowl pointed out. “Spy on the feasting hall, then catch the bugs on the way back. I don’t need them right now.” She wanted them, yes, but didn’t need them. Besides, the idea of spying on dinner was a good one. “I hope you can find someone else to slip treats under the table for you.”

Meowing gleefully, Sundance dashed across the room like a shadow to the window. To Prowl’s optics (and hers alone, she knew) the silver star-spots on her plating glowed slightly against the backdrop of the castle at sunset for the instant she perched on the sill, then the cat leaped down to the sill beneath them and was gone.

Since she would be waiting a while and spell components were on her mind now, Prowl took the lamps over to the cabinets in her study where she kept such things. She’d gone through them pretty thoroughly before leaving for Polyhex a vorn ago, but she hadn’t taken everything. The collection was too large for her to carry all of it by herself, for one thing, and it contained a lot of materials she didn’t usually need from one cycle to the next. Those were what she’d left behind, for the most part: components that were only useful for a single, odd spell. 

Most of what she found in the cupboard was more empty, dusty jars. She found a bottle of mercury, a crystal box of diamond dust… and three small filled vials: powdered shell, tiny pearls the size of grains of sand, and sea gems in all different colors. She’d meant to grind these to investigate their magical properties, she remembered that… Well, now she knew many of the alchemical properties of these materials and so many more mainlanders didn’t even know existed and didn’t need to investigate, did she?

She felt a pang of nostalgia over a component for a spell she could no longer cast. Her magic had changed when Sundance came to her, and while a lot of that was in how she approached the arcane, not what she was capable of, some things had slipped beyond her reach as others came into her grasp. Did that make her the expert in Polyhexian magic Arcee had asked for? 

She should at least pen a letter answering, saying what she’d concluded on the road: based on the reports provided, it sounded like these “demon possessed” rebels could be using Polyhexian styled magic, but she could not confirm without details. Preferably seeing such a warrior herself. Polyhexian magic was so very  _ varied; _ almost anything could look like it from a mere description.

Finding little of immediate use in the cupboard, she left most of the filled jars and took the three vials of Hightower-purchased materials and all of the empty jars over to the trunk. She’d keep the tiny pearls and such for herself, preparing for that cycle when she had to convince Wheeljack to help her with her paint again, but the jars she’d fill and take with baubles to share.

She was kneeling on the floor when something buzzed past her cheek. Prowl’s head whipped up as she tracked its movement, trying to identify it. A hexbug of some sort, almost certainly, come in through one of the open windows, but what kind? Was it one of the tasty ones? She wasn’t going to kill it unless it was tasty…

A small light blinked on and off, a rapidly flashing pattern meant to attract others of its own kind. It was the kind she needed for her light spell!

Excited, Prowl doused all but the one reading lamp and waited beside it for the hexbug to light up again. It had been moving toward the corner last time it— there! Bobbing along the wall at roughly chest height. She crept closer to it, losing it for a moment in the dark before it gave itself away again, this time only a short distance away. Her hands snapped out and closed around the hexbug before she’d registered she’d moved. She could feel it crawling around and fluttering against her palms. She had it!

Whispering the words, she pulled out the arcane essence of the hexbug’s light and placed it where she usually did for this casting: the star-shell that was the centerpiece of her necklace. She couldn’t see it directly, but in the dark, she saw the light flicker against the walls before steadying and brightening into the full strength light spell. 

Now maybe she could attract more bugs to eat!

The light of the spell was much more consistent and easy to see by than the light of a fire. The last tiny flame in the reading lamp went out with a short sputter, leaving Prowl a lot better off to continue her packing. 

She’d finished with the jewelry and her old ribbons when Sundance came dashing in and climbed up Prowl’s back to sit on her shoulders. The sudden weight almost caused Prowl to knock over the jars lined up in front of her. “Hi!”

“Hi,” Prowl said, belatedly bracing herself and turning right into Sundance rubbing against her face. “Ack. You’re in a good mood!”

_ “All _ the treats,” the cat meowed back. “People are very messy when they know servants will just clean it all up later. I didn’t beg though. I didn’t want to be caught. The king’s brooding over something, and I think we’d get in trouble if he caught me wandering.”

“Wise move.” Prowl reached up to scratch under Sundance’s chin, which made her purr loudly. “I’m so lucky to have such a clever spirit.”

“Unfortunately, no one was really talking about more than I heard this afternoon,” she continued after a klik. “Mirage was sitting in your spot, though, while Silverstreak’s place was kept empty. There’s going to be some duels and stuff, and I think the king’s going to watch those, then I think we’ll get fed.”

Leftovers from the feast then. It was and it wasn’t a slight; it would come down to why she was being sequestered away from the court, and what would happen next. She was more offended by Mirage sitting in her place right next to the king, though technically he had the right with her “out of the country” as an ambassador. “Thank you for listening. I’m glad you got a snack. All I caught was a single hexbug, and I needed it for the light.”

“I did catch a couple more, for later. I stashed them good so no one can find them!”

“You’re the best.”

“Am!”

Prowl smiled and nuzzled Sundance again before nudging her down from her shoulder. “Are you going to watch me finish, or find somewhere to nest?”

“I’ll sleep,” she replied. “This is boring.”

“Is not!” But that’s what Prowl had expected her to say, and she could probably use the nap after all that running around and not-begging for treats.

“Pfft.” The cat sauntered out of sight and a klik later Prowl got a sense of  _ high-watch-safe _ from her familiar as she settled down. She shook her head. That could mean she was on the windowsill looking down on the city or perched on the molding above the door, waiting to ambush whoever came in to deliver fuel.

As the last of the light outside burned away, Prowl’s magical light drew more hexbugs inside. Some she ignored — she wasn’t so desperate as to go after a bit of flying chalk! — but others she left her packing job to stalk until she successfully pounced them. They made a good stopgap, though they weren’t enough to make up a meal. At these numbers, they were more tasty entertainment than substantial fuel.

She was on another bug break, hand cupped around her necklace to minimize the light without canceling the spell as she crawled along the edge of the room after a hopper, when there was a soft click over by the main door, followed by—

“Primus!” the alarmed voice of a servant carried as the door swung open, spilling light from the hall into the dark entry room. “Princess, are you alright? Where are you?”

Prowl winced as she heard the servant trip and stumble on a stray book or jar. They were both lucky the sound wasn’t followed by the crash of her meal falling to the floor. “Stay there,” she called, to forestall that possibility. “I’ll be right there.”

She heard Sundance snickering and saw her faintly glowing star-spots on top of a high shelf as she entered the suite’s sitting room. The servant had obeyed, standing among all the things Prowl had left out. Smaller than average though definitely a fully Praxan frame with doorwings only just large enough to be considered such rather than winglets and a short, blunted chevron, the servant looked over at Prowl, shocked. “Imperial Princess?”

“Yes?” What was wrong? Aside from the mess, and the dark, and the halo of moths hovering around her head because of the light spell, which was a lot weaker than she’d thought it was in comparison to the light in the hall; definitely not bright enough to block out the wake-light effect of the ritual blue paint on her chest seam, shoulders, and doorwings. 

Hmm. That was rather a lot of things, wasn’t it? At least the servant hadn’t seen her on her hands and knees trying to pounce a hexbug so she could eat it.

“Are you alright, your highness?” the servant asked a little tentatively. “Should I fetch…” she trailed off, obviously at a loss for who she could fetch who could help a princess acting so strangely.

“No,” Prowl said firmly. Examining the mess — had she  _ really _ left all of this out? In just a few joors? — she nudged a pile of books aside so the servant could make it to the table relatively easily. Somehow Prowl had piled it and both chairs high with jars and other things, despite mostly working in her bedroom filling those jars. She hadn’t even thought anything of it until now that she’d been sitting on the floor! She cleared off the table for the meal. “Put the tray here. I’ll go light a lamp or something for you.”

“You’re too kind,” the femme murmured, stepping cautiously through the area Prowl had cleared. “Your valet took employment elsewhere while you were away. If it pleases you, the Housekeeper has assigned me to the role.”

“Really.” Prowl considered that while she fussed with the oil lamp on the wall. Finally, she coaxed the tiny flame to full brightness and replaced the glass chimney to protect the fire from the wind. She tilted the reflector of silvered glass behind it, and the ambient level of light in the room jumped. It still wasn’t as bright as the hall, so maybe Prowl would need one more lamp for the servant to feel comfortable. And she would need a valet, if only so that the Housekeeper and the King stopped trying to assign them to her. “What’s your name?”

“Citrine,” the femme placed the tray down and gave a low bow. It fit her; she had obviously been named for the color of her plating, which was shades of yellow, with lighter green accents.

“Consider yourself my new valet then, Citrine.” For however little time she was here. “Did you happen to bring any news along with the meal? I’ve been feeling somewhat underinformed since I arrived.”

“Thank you, your highness.” She took the covers off of energon. One bowl looked like it held carefully sculpted “natural” nuggets of pure gold and silver, while the other held clear, spun energon spheres filled with liquid energon. She poured a tiny glass of dark blue syrupy energon from an equally tiny pitcher. “Only that I’m to get you presentable for your appointment while you eat.”

“What appointment?”

“With the king?” Citrine looked at her wide-opticked like she couldn’t believe Prowl could  _ forget _ such a thing. “In half a joor?”

She hadn’t  _ forgotten.  _ “I was unaware,” Prowl said, her voice neutral. Frustrating as it was, the situation wasn’t Citrine’s fault. “Half a joor doesn’t give me very much time, does it?”

“Oh no it doesn’t, does it? You should sit…” she looked at the chairs, piled with things, then forged on bravely, “and eat while I draw a bath.”

“Good thing she just needs to get you presentable, not your rooms,” Sundance meowed helpfully.

“That sounds fine,” Prowl told Citrine, not acknowledging the cat’s sass. “Give me just a moment to get the light.” 

“You’re too kind,” the servant repeated.

Sundance snorted. “More like practical. She’s not the one with the mage light.”

“Pest. You know I’d feel awful if she got hurt tripping over something,” Prowl meowed, easily navigating the maze of hazards she’d left everywhere. She would have argued another bath was unnecessary after getting one when she’d arrived, but she probably did need it if she was going to be up to court standards after ransacking the suite like… well, like a Polyhexian.

She went ahead and lit the rest of the wall-sconces, adjusting the silvered glass behind each to cast more light. She thought about closing the windows so they wouldn’t come out and find the room full of moths, then she shrugged and left them. Moths were fine, and if Prowl wouldn’t eat them, maybe they’d attract things she would eat. She glanced at the moon to try and tell how many sunmarks she had left before her meeting, then with a furious blush through her EM field, remembered the water clock once again.

“Should I, ah, have someone come up to see to the rooms while you are with the king, your highness?” The new valet was clearly more comfortable with all the lights on, but she was still hesitant and uncertain with the — to her — unfamiliar situation. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Prowl said. In fact, “I would prefer it if things were left undisturbed.”

Citrine looked a little dubious at the clutter all over the floor. “Of course, your highness. I’ll draw you that bath.” She hurried into the bathing room. At least Prowl had left  _ that _ clear, though now that she was reminded, she wondered if there was any harm in taking some of her soaps and polishes. It wasn’t like Polyhex was entirely unfamiliar with Praxan bathing things, just with indoor plumbing.

“Should eat,” Sundance said, absolutely not lining herself up to leap down onto the table and snatch something for herself.

“Don’t you dare,” Prowl warned, quickly covering the bowl of liquid-filled spheres to protect them. “You know better than to pounce these.”

Sundance sniffed in feigned disinterest. “Don’t like those anyway.” She leaped down, landing on the arm of one of the chairs and grabbed what looked like a solid chunk of silver — or what would have looked like a solid chunk of silver if it hadn’t squished like gel between the cat’s jaws, the outer shell cracking. Luckily, the core wasn’t liquid. Prowl reeeeeeally didn’t want to chase an energon-smeared cat around the suite and then hold her down for a bath. Ever, but especially not right now. There wasn’t enough time, and no amount of insisting they leave things alone would keep the servants from coming through to wipe up the mess and straightening everything up in the process.

Leaving Sundance to break apart and lick up the faux-silver gel, Prowl popped one of the liquid-filled spheres in her mouth and reached for the tiny glass of syrup. Both tasted good — she hadn’t expected they wouldn’t — but the syrup was better. It was also  _ potent,  _ and she set it down to consider while she ate another sphere. She enjoyed highgrade, had missed how readily available it was here while she was in Polyhex, but—

“They’re trying to get you drunk.”

“They— maybe,” Prowl amended with a petulant mew. Serving highgrade with meals was common enough, but this meal wasn’t going to have any time to work its way through her systems before she had to navigate whatever politics were going on. If they’d planned that to put her at a disadvantage… Scrap. She wished she knew who had ordered she be served leftovers for dinner. Small amounts of potent highgrade were often served at politically charged meals, either to soothe bruised egos from earlier in the cycle or to cushion fragile ones after the meal. Someone could have innocently told the servants to serve her what she would have been given had she been at the table… or not so innocently told them the same.

Maybe she should just drink the one tiny cup, and then stash the rest of what was in the small pitcher for when she got back.

If only she had an empty jar or something to put it in!

“Geez, are you  _ already  _ drunk?” Sundance asked as Prowl fished out yet another green glass bottle and, giggling through the incantation, magicked it clean and poured the contents of the pitcher into it. 

“Not drunk,” Prowl promised, sealing and securing the lid. “Just amused.” She hid the jar on the floor behind the floor-length window curtain. Even if someone did come in and straighten everything up, they weren’t likely to spot it there.

“I’m going to tell Leaf or Zephyr you did that,” Sundance snickered when Prowl returned to the table to finish the meal.

“Did whaph?” Mmm. The fake silver nuggets were tasty.

“Stashed your kill for later.” She licked her paw primly. “What’s next? Putting glitchmice under your own nest?”

“You’d just eat them all before I could go back for them.” Prowl knew her cat! It went both ways though, and there was no getting around how well Sundance knew her. Stashing food anywhere there was a good spot was something she’d thought silly a vorn ago, but she hadn’t even given it a second thought now. “You’d eat these if I stashed them,” she held up one of the silver nuggets. “The only thing stopping you from drinking that highgrade is a literal stopper and a lack of thumbs.”

Sundance sniffed disdainfully. Then she grabbed another rough nugget from the pile. 

Knowing better than to claim she’d won (even if she had!), Prowl broke open the nugget in her hand to look more carefully inside. Under the crust of silver and dried monosaccharide, the gelled energon was bright blue — the color of pure midgrade — and quite squishy. Interesting. Pure liquid energon only came to Polyhex via Praxus, traded for or stolen, and that rarity made it a poor prospect for experimenting with, but she couldn’t help wondering what Wheeljack would make of these. 

Too bad any version he managed to recreate probably wouldn’t be edible.

“Whenever you’re ready for your bath, Imperial Princess,” Citrine interrupted quietly. “I’ll find your tiara while you finish up.”

Tiara?  _ Damn. _

“I’m afraid I don’t know exactly where it is,” Prowl admitted, as usual having completely forgotten about the thing. The shell-and-pearl one from her wedding was still on the kattumaram, in Hightower, since it was  _ hers _ and Jazz had a matching one and she hadn’t wanted to be forced to leave it in Praxus if she came back only to be put on trial, but there should be at least one or two more here… somewhere. “Try in the bedchamber with my other jewelry.”

“Yes, your highness.” Citrine disappeared into the berthroom with a bow.

“It’s going to feel so weird to wear that again,” Sundance commented. Prowl nodded her agreement but didn’t otherwise answer. The thought that the bath was waiting reminded her that she didn’t actually have much time to finish up her meal. Plus that bath was undoubtedly hot right now, but it was unlikely to stay that way, not like the pools of Keahi-heated water she’d often bathed in on Rainclouds. 

She missed those. The one time she’d asked after the disaster, Zephyr had said they’d probably reform someplace new… eventually. Like the river, it would depend on the new shapes of the rock and new flows of water through that rock.

“Stop thinking so loudly and eat,” Sundance mewed.

“I can think and eat!” Prowl crunched open another liquid sphere to prove her point, then grabbed a pair of the gels. “Phee?”

The shipcat just snickered as she licked her paws clean.

Hmph. Let her laugh. Prowl stuffed her mouth full, tipped the remaining gel nuggets in with the remaining spheres, and brought the bowl with her into the bath. The cleanser was delightfully warm as she sank into it, and just dense enough for the bowl to float on top of.

“No fair!” Sundance yowled loudly, jumping up onto the edge of the tub. “Meanie!” She reached out with her paw, trying to reach the bowl and pull it closer.

The noise brought Citrine in, stepping hurriedly. She had a delicate rose gold crown set with numerous grey gemstones and white pearls in one hand and a polishing cloth in the other. “Is everything alright, Imperial Princess?” 

“Everyfing’s fine,” Prowl said, lisping around her current mouthful. She swallowed. “Sundance is protesting my hoarding, that’s all.”

Gold optics darkened in concern. “If you say so, your highness.” She did one more swipe of the cloth over the crown and examined it critically before setting it aside, over where she’d laid out towels and polishing supplies while drawing the bath earlier. “With your permission, I can start scrubbing you… or if you prefer, I’ll work on polishing your familiar while you… finish?”

“You may start on me,” Prowl said. Citrine didn’t need the clawmarks. “I will take care of her.”

Sundance couldn’t stick her tongue out — or rather she  _ could, _ but didn’t have the impulse to do something so unfeline no matter how mech-like she could seem to her mage — but Prowl could read volumes of childish derision in her familiar’s yawn.

“As you wish.” Citrine collected up a sponge and started wiping the dust off of Prowl’s upper body, where she wasn’t submerged in the clean, warm water. She went swiftly; a quick rinse to get her presentable rather than the thorough scrub the other attendants had subjected her to earlier, just as Prowl had guessed.

Saving one more gel for Sundance, Prowl finished off her fuel and pushed the bowl over to the waiting cat. “I need you to cooperate,” she told her, then reached for a polishing cloth.

A tiny feline nose wrinkled in distaste. “I’m  _ not _ getting in that bath. I can clean myself.”

“Clean isn’t polished. You don’t have to get in the bath, but I do need you to let me shine you up a bit.”

Sundance bit into the last silver leafed gel, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Citrine whisked the bowl away and set both it and the used washcloth aside to be taken away when she left.

Prowl got up, stepping out of the bath so she could drip/be toweled dry. “I’m getting polished too. The least you could do is suffer with me.”

“Bleh,” was Sundance’s comment, as Citrine picked up a large, fluffy towel to get to work on Prowl.

Fluffy towels were awfully nice. 

“Do you know where I’m supposed to meet the king?”

“No, your highness. Your escort will, though.” Citrine was gentle and thorough with her drying, starting at Prowl’s shoulders and rubbing the towel over her doorwings. It was pleasant — almost too pleasant. Prowl would have preferred Jazz’s hands.

“Guards and escorts everywhere you turn, huh?” Sundance hopped down from the edge of the bath and onto a padded bench. If it was in a convenient spot for Prowl to polish her, it was entirely a coincidence. Not a sign of cooperating. Nope. “It’s making me twitchy,” she meowed.

Prowl wasn’t unaffected by it either. She was sure the enforcement of her schedule hadn’t been this… overt since she was a newling. She’d sort of expected the strict scheduling in Praxus to feel oppressive, but she had  _ not _ expected to be under guard every nanoklik!

It was a relief when Citrine moved away from her doors and started drying her back. She wanted to physically flick the phantom touch off, but she held herself still. In a klik, the servant would be… yup. Citrine circled Prowl, coming around to dry her chest with the towel. That was both better and worse, and the door flicking she could indulge in now was a good distraction. Fortunately, Citrine quickly moved on to toweling off Prowl’s hips and legs.

Sundance let out a pitiful meow when Prowl used her now free hands to begin rubbing her down with the polishing cloth. “Meeeeeeeeeeean.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be done soon,” Prowl promised. She smiled at Citrine, who was looking at Sundance with some alarm. “Don’t worry. I know it sounds awful, but she’s really okay.”

“Of course, your highness,” the femme murmured, but it took a nanoklik of staring for her to refocus on her own task. Once Prowl’s feet were dry, it was time for her to be polished just like Sundance. “Which polish do you prefer?” she asked, holding up two jars, one labeled as  _ High Gloss _ and the other labeled as  _ Glitter-silver. _

“The gloss.” Glitter was Silverstreak’s thing. “How are we doing on time?”

Citrine leaned briefly away to check the water clock, then came back and furiously scrubbed the polish over Prowl’s plating with the soft cloth. “We have a breem,” she said tightly. “I apologize for my haste, Imperial Princess.”

“Do what you have to.” This was actually better, in Prowl’s opinion. The dissonance between washing as an intimate activity and a purely functional one wasn’t as bad now. 

“Hey! You don’t have to get rough with  _ me  _ just because we’re in a rush!” Sundance wailed.

“I’m not being rough,” Prowl shushed her, smoothing the polishing cloth perfectly gently over her cat’s plating. “Give me your paw.”

“Don’t like you messing with my paws. My paws are fine. My paws are the cleanest part of me,” she whined back, but didn’t give more than a token struggle against Prowl’s grip. 

Three kliks later they were both as shiny as they were going to get. “Alright. Where did the tiara get to?”

“Here, Imperial Princess.” Citrine fetched it from its place. Instead of trying to put it directly on Prowl’s head, she held it out to be taken. “I couldn’t find anything that coordinated with it without disturbing your… efforts.”

“Thank you.” Prowl took the tiara and settled it behind her chevron. “This will be sufficient. In fact,” she couldn’t help adding, “he’s probably expecting me to have forgotten it.”

The servant’s optics widened in shock and disbelief, but she didn’t comment. “Are there any tasks you wish me to perform before bed?”

“Um.” Was there anything? “You can tidy up in there,” she waved at the bath, “and make sure the lamps are on in the berthroom. Only one needs to be left out here. I expect I’ll want to collapse into bed when I get back, so just… facilitate that.”

“Yes, of course, Imperial Princess.” She bowed and started collecting up the used towels and cloths.

Sundance leaped up onto Prowl’s shoulder without prompting and bumped her nose against her cheek. “Let’s go.”

“That escort better be waiting,” Prowl said. Would the door even open? She tried it and found it locked, but before she could so much as huff indignantly, it was unlocked and opened. 

“Imperial Princess,” the guard greeted with a bow, which was copied by two of the other three waiting there; the fourth was obviously on duty and remained at attention next to her door. “We will take you to your appointment whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” Prowl said. “Lead the way.”

The guard nodded sharply and turned on his heel to lead the way down the corridor. The two with him waited for Prowl to exit her room and follow before themselves following. Three guards, just like before. 

Again they stuck to the lesser used corridors of the castle. This was facilitated by already being on the upper floors, where the Royals had their rooms, rather than having to go through any of the more public areas first. It wasn’t that far from the heirs’ rooms to the king’s. The castle itself hadn’t changed at all since Prowl was last here. Even the artworks in the halls were the same, at least as far as she could remember. Thus she wasn’t startled when they turned off of the route leading to the King’s bedrooms to one of his smallest offices.

“Do you wait to escort me back after our meeting?” Prowl asked as they came up to the door.

“Yes, Imperial Princess,” the guard answered with an apologetic flick of his doors.

Then this meeting wasn’t going to change anything, just explain it. Prowl nodded. “Are you going to announce me then?”

“Of course!” He trotted the final few steps to the door, reaching it ahead of the rest of the escort. He knocked and had to wait for it to be opened by someone inside. “Imperial Princess Prowl,” he called, then stepped aside so that Prowl could enter.

She went forward almost cautiously, walking the appropriate distance before pulling Sundance off her shoulders and going to her knees. The king was there, seated behind an ornate desk, but she didn’t meet his optics. “Your majesty.”

Behind her, the door closed again. 

Prowl’s fuel pump hammered loudly in her audios while she waited. The king’s disapproval almost radiated from him in his silence until—

“Rise, Imperial Princess Prowl,” Bluestreak said slowly, setting aside his pen and holding out his hand.

Obediently, Prowl rose. Where was this going? She wanted to just cut to the chase, but there were social protocols she had to observe. Talking with her mouth full to her cat around her valet was one thing. Here and now she needed to toe the line. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, your majesty.”

Neither his secretary nor Mirage was present, she noted with some surprise. There had always been some affection between the king and his chosen heirs, but Prowl could not recall ever being alone with him. Early in her education, she had been accompanied by her teachers whenever he was present, then later when she had begun participating in the politics, he had always had his secretary and his current favored advisor with him. With how hard Mirage worked to keep his hands in everything, she had fully been expecting to see him at the king’s side. 

“There’s a pair of guards behind us, from the king’s personal defenders,” Sundance meowed softly, and Prowl stroked her in thanks. 

“It’s best we get this settled quickly,” Bluestreak said, foregoing any further formalities or pleasantries. “Come and sit.”

“Of course.” She came forward and sat, grateful for Sundance jumping up into her lap. The levels of privacy and secrecy surrounding everything were really starting to worry her. “How serious is the situation?”

Bluestreak closed his book and moved it off of a stack of flimsies. He flipped through them and chose a page, which he turned and placed in front of Prowl. “I want you to tell me that wasn’t you.”

Prowl leaned forward, optics quickly scanning the page. It was a report, detailing a pirate attack on a merchant ship off the coast of Hightower. Among the pirates described was one…  _ spirits and gods.  _ Praxan-like frame, magic, fluency in the Praxan language. That was her. Her hands tightened on her knees. She could deny it. The description wasn’t perfect, but… She read further. The sailors’ reports couldn’t agree on which of the pirates was the wizard (unsurprisingly; Jazz’s war group had one of Keahi’s Hounds and some of those spells had been his, not hers). One of the sailors who had actually interacted with her had misidentified her as a mech, rather than a femme. Yet despite the errors, it was still enough for the king to have guessed the truth. 

_ Tell me that wasn’t you. _ Because he was willing to bury it? Because he wasn’t actually sure? She’d already botched it by hesitating too long if it was the latter. 

The king narrowed his optics. “Diplomats can be faced with hard choices, and occasionally make questionable decisions. If you had been properly trained as a diplomat before your first foray, you would have been presented with theoretical scenarios to help guide your decisions. Nevertheless,  _ if _ you have done something questionable, there will be consequences, and now is  _ not the time _ for Praxus to take on a  _ third _ heir.”

Prowl felt her spark clench in her chest. “What happened to Silverstreak?”

“Rebels attacked his convoy during his tour of the Iaconi-Kaonex border with his bonded,” Bluestreak said sharply, almost perfunctorily. “He was taken prisoner, and Iacon regretfully informs us neither he nor the Prime-Ascendant has been heard from since. So, Prowl,” he leaned forward. His hands folded calmly in front of him, but his doorwings flared out in a manner that was both regal and threatening. “Answer me  _ carefully: _ are you who these reports are referring to?”

He was asking her to deny it. Praxus  _ needed  _ her to deny it. If she admitted to participating in acts of piracy, she’d be admitting to treason, and even if they found a way to spin her inexperience to get around exiling her (or worse, executing her), there would be no justifying her remaining in the line of succession. Her fear that she would be needed as a princess instead of an ambassador had come true. 

“I can’t say, with certainty, who the reports are referring to,” Prowl said. It was what her responsibilities demanded of her. From a self-preservation angle, it was the right thing to say, regardless of the bad taste the lie left in her mouth. Disavowing her involvement eliminated any chance to discuss the incident or its implications, to explain why it had been necessary, what she’d been trying to accomplish… Now, any such conversation was off the table, any value swept under the rug with the detractions.

The king’s doorwings settled into a more relaxed angle. “Of course not. They are vague and contradictory. Obviously, a single vorn was not enough to negotiate any sort of truce with the barbarians. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“A dozen vorn may not be enough to negotiate a truce with  _ Polyhex,”  _ Prowl stressed the word. They weren’t barbarians. They were just different — so different that the very concept of the kind of truce the king wanted was alien to them. She drew in a deep breath. “I regret to inform you that there is no fast or simple solution to the problem of pirate raids.”

The king waved that off, dismissing it. “Something for the next diplomat to address, if they will accept one. In the meantime, Praxus will deal with the pirates as we always have. I’ll arrange to have you introduced to the court next cycle at dinner.”

That was… remarkably anticlimactic, after how much she’d agonized over being unable to fulfill the assignment she’d been sent on. Bigger concerns and all that, she understood, but still. It felt odd to be discharged of that responsibility so quickly. “How long will I be filling in for the prince?” 

“Unless he is found, alive, and not in enemy hands,” Bluestreak narrowed his optics, “you are not ‘filling in’.”

“Of course! I didn’t mean that I would not be taking the responsibility seriously for as long as it is mine to bear.”

“Forever,” Sundance sneezed.

_ What? _

“Of course you will,” the king said, satisfied. “And of course we will need a formal account of your time in Polyhex. It will prove useful for your replacement. That can wait until the next cycle, but I am curious,” his expression softened, “how was your vorn? Did they treat you well?”

“They treated me very well,” Prowl said, starting with the simplest answer while she puzzled over what else to say and what Sundance had meant by her comment. “I was welcomed into Rainclouds as one of their own.”

“Bring your chair around here,” Bluestreak gestured to the corner of his desk, “and I’ll set up a Chaturanga board so we can play while we talk. I’ve not seen you for a vorn. I missed you.”

“It feels like so little and so long a time at once.” Prowl saw the guards at the door as she moved her chair, which reminded her of the ones waiting outside for her. They were certainly there to provide protection for her now, but she suspected their task would have been very different if she hadn’t denied her presence on the raids. “It was a marvelous experience, both the good and the bad.”

Bluestreak nodded, clearing his work so they had room to play. Standing, he went to the shelf to retrieve a beautifully carved Chaturanga set that, if the stories she’d heard as a newling were to be believed, had once belonged to the Prime who ruled over the corner of the Empire of Galifar that had later become Praxus. He didn’t have to “set up” the board, however, as it was stored ready to play on the shelf. “What was the best part?”

“The best part…” How to pick one thing out of everything she’d experienced? Prowl smiled as she thought back over the seasons. “Learning with the newlings,” she said.

The king set the game down, orienting it so that Prowl would be playing the black pieces. That gave him white, which moved first. He chose one of the amethyst studded bhata and advanced it. “You always did enjoy learning new things. What sort of classes do Polyhexians hold?”

Prowl reined in her instinct to start gushing about everything. Instead, she picked up one of her bhata to contemplate her first move in both the game and the conversation. She couldn’t help but wonder where this stone had come from. She had never considered it strange before, but the texture of the black rock was reminiscent of the dirt crystal fields, though said crystals looked nothing like amethyst. There was no saying that, however, without revealing that Polyhexians deliberately cultivated crystals for consumption on the surface rather than mining for energon. Was that something that would benefit both nations to know, or harm them?

“Polyhexian classes are significantly less oriented around specific topics than Praxan ones,” she went with, aiming for interesting vagueness. “Often the subject of the cycle’s lesson was decided when everyone came together, as opposed to being predetermined.”

“I can’t imagine how that would work,” Bluestreak commented, waiting patiently for Prowl to decide where to set down the piece. 

“It took me by surprise initially, but there was a logic to it.” She advanced the bhata, then lowered her hand to pet Sundance. “Polyhexian newlings don’t specialize right away. The adults take turns, depending on who is available, to look after them in groups and focus on general knowledge and skills before individual mentorships form.”

“That seems so backward.” Bluestreak contemplated the board, then moved another bhata. “Good for you though, since general skills were what you were most interested in. Hopefully, it did not impede negotiations for you to be in newling classes.”

“Not at all.” If anything, participating in looking after the newlings as she learned alongside them had helped the people of Polyhex view her in a positive light. “The difficulties I encountered regarding negotiations were unrelated to my personal pursuit of knowledge.” She would rather put those details in her report though, where she could take more time to work out her phrasing carefully. “It was a novel experience to learn in a group setting. Often the newlings would ask questions or try things I never would have thought of.” Like jumping off of cliffs into one of the few areas with deep enough water at the bottom to be a relatively safe landing, and practicing their summersaults. 

“A useful experience then. And your bonded? Is she well?” Something in Bluestreak’s EM field soured briefly at the mention of Jazz, but whatever he was thinking, he swept it aside before Prowl could do more than note it. “While I cannot deny it is much more convenient not having her under our tires right now, the two of you were quite attached. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

_ Wrong _ because Jazz hadn’t accompanied her to the capital? Prowl shook her head, allowing her love for Jazz to suffuse her field. “Not at all. This past vorn has brought us closer together than I could have imagined. We separated in the interest of discharging our disparate duties more efficiently, but she eagerly—”

“Impatiently,” meowed Sundance.

“—awaits me in Hightower.” 

“In Hightower, of course,” Bluestreak murmured. “I’ll have to arrange a procession for you to return there.”

She didn’t need any such thing, but it was a good sign that Bluestreak was offering it. Coming from him like this, unprompted and in private, it was as much a gesture of affection as an acknowledgment of the proper protocols. Prowl smiled softly as she made her next move, her doors relaxing a fraction. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“I would see you happy if I can.”

Prowl had to resist the sudden out-of-place urge to reach across the board and squeeze the king’s hand. In Polyhex, a declaration like that would have warranted at least that much, if not a full hug! It had taken her so long to get used to how casually physical the islanders were each other that it was something of a shock to realize how much she missed it now. “That means a great deal to me.”

Bluestreak moved his chariot to threaten her diamond encrusted raja. “Did you ever find any dragons?” he asked curiously. “I remember you thought there might be some somewhere on the islands.”

“Alas, only stories,” Prowl said, blocking with a ruby trimmed ashva. Real or imagined, she was not prepared to discuss her visit to the island of the gods and her vision of Keahi. “According to legend, the oldest island was once inhabited by dragons. Jazz told me that some versions of the tale hold them to be their ancestors, long since retreated to the heart of the island, which is considered sacred.”

_ Sacred _ wasn’t quite the word Jazz had used. She’d just said that it belonged to their dragon-ancestors and so no one went there… but Polyhexian religion was so intertwined with the world that Prowl couldn’t be sure if it was respect or fear that kept people away from the higher peaks of Harvest Island. Either way, the loose translation expressed the result in a way the king could understand.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You were looking forward to seeing one.” Bluestreak went ahead and took the ashva with his chariot, once again threatening her raja. It was a sacrificial move, enabling Prowl to take the piece with another bhata.

“Given what I was told about them, perhaps it’s best I didn’t. Describing a creature as a force of nature takes on a new meaning once you’ve seen the force that nature can truly exert.”

“Oh?”

Prowl looked up, optics seeing past the king into the darkness beyond the window behind him. The mountains around the city were quiet. The very idea that something so massive, so permanent, could  _ explode…  _ She had barely believed it with the reality of it right in front of her. “You know the storms that batter the coast, of course,” she said, beginning with something she felt was more approachable. “The severity they reach out on the open sea, with nothing to break them up… I struggle to find adequate words.”

“I can’t imagine how frightening that would be,” Bluestreak nodded.

“I watched the lighting set the trees aflame. The winds blew so hard it was all I could do to stay on my feet, braced against the wall of the cave, and they lifted the fire up into the sky like flurries of snow as tall as the castle walls.” 

“Sounds terrifying.” The king didn’t offer any sort of physical comfort; Prowl missed Jazz’s supportive hugs. “It’s a wonder they manage to build anything, contending with that.”

“What they built,” what little they built; what little had been left after Keahi’s eruption of fire and ash, “required extensive repairs when the storms finally abated. We were incredibly lucky that Jazz’s vessel did not suffer any significant damage.” 

“I’m immensely glad you returned to us safely,” Bluestreak murmured.

“As am I.” She’d been completely unprepared for how genuinely dangerous Polyhex was when she’d first set sail. Almost dying several times — several dozen times? — made her much more appreciative of her continued existence. 

“And you definitely haven’t lost your touch at this game.” Bluestreak chuckled as Prowl tipped his raja over with her gaja. “Congratulations.”

Prowl smiled, pleased to have won. “Thank you. I have missed playing it with you.” Even as formal and distanced as their relationship was, she really had missed him. 

“And I, you. Have a pleasant night, princess,” he said softly. Fondly. He held out his hand for her to press her forehelm to. Prowl did so readily, an answering fondness in her field.

“Does that mean we’re getting kicked out now?” Sundance hopped down to the floor with a muted meow. “We’re not going to be locked in anymore though, right?”

She suspected the answer was no, but Prowl had one more question for the king. “When would you have me present myself tomorrow?”

“You’ll enter the dining hall with me,” Bluestreak said quietly, his field softening to mingle with hers. “Be prepared half a joor before the meal. I’ll send one of my guards to your room to fetch you.”

Oh, good! No chance she would lose track of time and be late. “I will be ready,” Prowl promised. Then, standing, she returned her chair to its original place and bowed a final time. “Good night, your majesty.”

“Good night, princess.”

.

.

.

The next morning, Prowl woke early. Very early, she thought at first, until she remembered that there were curtains here. Citrine had very helpfully closed up the suite last night, and Prowl had been too ready for sleep to do more than douse all the lamps and collapse into bed.

She got up and looked down at the bed to see she’d made a complete tangle of the sheets, twisting them up to create a sleeping hollow of sorts to cradle her. Sundance, predictably, was still in it, nose tucked in under her paws.

The air was still and too-warm, so Prowl went ahead and opened the window in her berthroom. That was much better. Immediately the cool, fresh mountain air rushed in, and Prowl shivered. It was cooler than it had been in the village, near the sea, but not uncomfortably so. It wasn’t wet. 

The fresh air was such an improvement, she decided to open all of the windows in her suite again and stretched as she went out into the sitting room. The sun was up but still below the mountain peaks, giving everything a yellowish tint.

She found breakfast already waiting, a clear glass teapot filled with energon set over a delicate warmer containing a single candle and a plate of “stained glass” wafers. Even better, her things had been delivered. She moved them so they were together with the trunk she’d been packing and drew out the armband with its long red ketzal feathers and sharp dog-shark barbs and affixed it in its rightful place. There. It was amazing how just that one thing made her feel so much better. She was a warrior-mage of Rainclouds, and now everyone could see it. 

She slipped the hidden jar of highgrade in with her spell components before returning to her meal and contemplating her schedule. The whole cycle was hers until dinner, apart from taking the time to make sure she was ready. What was she going to do with it?

“Feeeeeeeed meeeee,” Sundance meowed, magically appearing at her feet at the first  _ snap!  _ of a wafer.

Prowl giggled. That was probably a good place to start. “Good morning,” she meowed back, selecting a wafer and holding it out to her cat. Sundance took it gently, then started breaking it into pieces to eat. Crumbs everywhere.

Leaving her to her mess, Prowl poured herself a cup of the warmed energon and sat down to enjoy it slowly. There was no reason to rush, and every reason to take a moment to organize her thoughts and take stock of the situation she’d found herself in. It wasn’t quite as out of keeping with her expectations as visiting Polyhex had been, but it wasn’t what she’d spent the drive from Hightower mentally preparing herself for. 

She probably wasn’t locked in anymore, but she got the feeling the king didn’t want her noticed by the court until her official “return”. That meant walking the gardens or practicing with her weapons in the salle was a no-go, but more secluded places like the astronomy tower or the library should be acceptable alternatives to her suite, which she’d largely exhausted the possibilities of the cycle before. There was more stuff to go through, yes, but it didn’t need to be done all at once. Until a resolution was reached regarding Silverstreak, for good or ill, she wouldn’t be returning to Hightower. 

Too bad she couldn’t send Jazz a letter explaining the delay. Her beloved couldn’t read. She did, however, address a letter to Smokescreen and wrote out a quick note with her apologies and love. 

Then she pulled out a second sheet of flimsy and started writing a response to Arcee’s request, stating that the reports were inconclusive, that they did sound like Polyhexian magic, but that she’d need more details to say for sure, then remembered what the king had said: Arcee hadn’t been heard from since Silverstreak was taken. What a mess.

“You’re worrying.”

“My brother has been captured, possibly killed, and my friend is missing.” Also possibly dead, but Prowl didn’t want to assume either of them were gone without confirmation. That said, “Of course I’m worrying. I love them.”

“Worrying isn’t productive though. The question is what are you going to do about it?” Sundance tilted her head to the side, flicking her ears inquisitively.

“I don’t know yet.” Prowl frowned as she realized just how little she really knew about what had happened. “Get more details, for starters. I’ll be able to start talking to people who know what’s going on after dinner, and in the meantime…” 

The shipcat just flicked her tail.

Prowl gave her a knowing look.  _ “You’re  _ going to go hunting glitchmice, aren’t you?”

“I  _ could _ go hunting glitchmice,” Sundance conceded. “You know, if you want me to.”

What did she want her to do? Prowl sighed and, giving in to a need for comfort, reached down and scooped her up into her arms. “It feels so lonely here.”

Immediately, Sundance started purring, wiggling just enough to get comfortable before going still so Prowl could cuddle her to her spark’s content. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” She was so glad to have Sundance with her. She wanted her to stay with her instead of wandering off to hunt, but, “There’s no point in us both being cooped up and miserable all day. You should find something fun to do for at least part of the cycle.”

“I do like cuddling with you.” Her optics glowed with affection. “Is fun.”

“Aww.” Prowl gave her a gentle squeeze, then settled into a rhythm of stroking her back. “Then stay with me. Please.” 

“As long as you keep petting me,” she bargained like she hadn’t already just offered to do it of her own accord.

“Will,” Prowl agreed anyway. 

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the closeness and contact along with the rest of their breakfast. By the time they finished off the last drops in the pot and crumbs on the plate, Prowl had decided that the library was where she wanted to spend the majority of the cycle. There were a couple of accounts that had been confusing when she’d first read them that she wanted to revisit now that she knew more, and she was sure other things would come to mind to check as she read. Maneuvering around the cat in her arms, she slipped her bag with her spell components over her shoulder and tried the door.

It opened smoothly. The guard gave her an odd look at the way she was clinging to Sundance, but he didn’t move or comment as she stepped out into the hall.

“Will there be an issue with a visit to the library?” she asked, in case they still wanted to clear hallways ahead of her.

“I’ve not been informed of such, Imperial Princess,” he responded respectfully.

Alright then. Prowl nodded and set off, leaving him to fall in behind her.

Even without the precaution of clearing the halls, she only ran across a pair of servants on the way to the library. It was too early for most to be in this section of the palace, and that emptiness just served to emphasize the irony of being lonely in a place with so many people.

The guard didn’t accompany her into the library itself, staying outside as the door closed heavily behind her. 

The air inside was dusty and cool. The windows here didn’t open, and, in fact, were tinted to let in less sunlight that would fade or damage the precious books. Instead, a reader would have to depend on carefully shielded lamps, or, in Prowl’s case, mage lights to see the words they were reading.

“You’re welcome,” Sundance said when Prowl brought out a hexbug for her spell.

“Did you catch more of them for me?”

“Did!”

Such a good hunter. Prowl kissed her head between her ears, then began searching the shelves for the books she wanted.

Some time later, she was hidden behind a veritable wall of them on the table she’d claimed for herself. Sundance had left her arms, but was still close at hand, curled up on top of her bag ~~napping on~~ guarding it while Prowl looked for any sign that Polyhexian styled magics had ever been practiced on the mainland. She had searched for them before, but that had been in conjunction with more general research into the traces of pre-Galifarian Praxan civilization around the country. The lack of records from that time period still frustrated her, but she understood it better now. A civilization could exist perfectly well without writing, it seemed, as long as there remained newlings to tell the stories to; combine that with Galifar’s deliberate efforts to erase what had come before… It was frustrating. However, this time she had a better idea of what sorts of magic — beyond Jazz and Ricochet’s fishing-cat rage — to look for.

It helped significantly to know that said magic wouldn’t be labeled as such. Polyhexian magic was considered trickery, alchemy, and exaggeration by Praxan mages, and any records from Iacon likely misidentified it as consorting with demons. Armed with that information, Prowl strayed from the hard, factual, historical record and into the realm of fairy tales and anecdotes.

Last time she’d kind of skimmed over the tales involving wolves. Turbowolves were scary! But now she had the memory of running with Chromia’s pack, one of her spirit wolves writhing inside her plating as they shared the joy of the chase… It helped, but she still went ahead and took a sip of the reserved highgrade. It was so potent, but if she was careful to take only a sip at a time, it would be relaxing rather than intoxicating. Plus, it’d be enough to stave off hunger until dinner.

The fairy tales of wolves were still pretty strut-chilling. Trying not to shiver (or sweep Sundance up to cuddle again), Prowl listed out common elements in each tale she read: an association of wolves — as a representation of the wild in general — with darkness, terror, and rust. Talking wolves luring mechs out of safety to eat them. Wolves that shapeshifted into mechs and back and hunted in great packs under the moon…

Even with her new knowledge, a lot of it still sounded entirely fanciful. Versatile as Polyhexian magic was, it had its limits. And yet, some stories she suspected were at least based in truth. The one where the lone nightguard vanished into the wild amidst the howls of wolves, only to return later alongside them having taken on their form, for instance. Spirit-possessed warriors did resemble wild animals when they fought; that resemblance becoming a literal transformation as the story was retold over the course of time wasn’t unthinkable. 

The one about a demon king taking the form of a talking wolf in order to lure a Prime to damnation, though. That was probably entirely fiction. An allegory or morality tale.

So it was all circumstantial. At best, the stories suggested pockets of Polyhexian-styled magic on the mainland significant enough to warrant warning tales a long, long time ago. The most recent tale she felt confident attributing any potential truth to, a story of hostile fey in the forests with excessive descriptions of just how said creatures would prepare an incautious traveler to eat, was hardly contemporary. There were no Keahi’s Hounds on the mainland now, if there ever had been. 

Where else could she look?

The black Chaturanga pieces, she remembered. Where had they come from? The rock they were made of was reminiscent enough of the liquid rock of the flow on Rainclouds to pique Prowl’s curiosity, but it was impossible for it to have come from Polyhex given the age of the set. Polyhexian goods had been all but unheard of anywhere but the coast in the cycles of the empire, and in any case, they didn’t trade in rocks. Why would they? The black rock was prevalent enough that it wouldn’t have hurt them to part with it, but it wasn’t unique enough to be worth the trouble of transporting it.

Shifting gears from looking for mentions of mages in stories, Prowl started looking for mentions of black rock in geological records. Of course Galifarian records wouldn’t mention fire-mountain-gods, but if she could find signs of the rock… 

She did find it. Apparently, black rock like that was actually quite common around the City of Praxus and several other cities. The descriptions became sketchier for other countries, but she did find one long treatise that amounted to a list of rocks common in northern Kaon and their descriptions, of which the “common mine-rock” sounded familiar.

“You’re thinking loudly again.” Sundance stretched, imposing a paw over the words Prowl was currently reading. “Did you find anything?”

“I don’t know,” Prowl meowed back, petting her spirit. “I thought the rock of the Chaturanga pieces felt familiar, like the ash-rock from the mountain, but maybe I’m just jumping at shadows.” Keahi’s explosion of fire and rock had certainly been…  _ been. _ She felt justified in being a little obsessed about it now. Mainland mountains didn’t  _ do _ that. Primus, the god who dwelled in the metal and rock beneath them, was a god of love and creation, not of wanton, indifferent destruction.

“Sometimes,” the cat purred, rolling under her hand to get the best skritches, “you can’t know all the things any more than you can do all the things.”

“My, my. Such wisdom.” 

“Naturally.”

Prowl chuckled at her absolute lack of shame. 

“Well… the wandering princess returns,” a new voice intruded on her quiet, loud enough to be heard but soft enough that the speaker could claim he meant no disrespect. “Imperial Princess.” Mirage glided out of the shadows between two rows of shelves. “Welcome back.”

“Lord Mirage,” Prowl replied, inclining her head. She wasn’t sure where she stood with him after her absence. How much favor did he have now with the king? More relevant, how much did he have compared to her? Without knowing that, she had no way to see the line she needed to walk between not giving offense and not tolerating any slights. 

“Should steal something from him.”

It was all Prowl could do to keep a straight face. Yes, it was the harvest season, but Mirage hadn’t yet offered her an insult that warranted a retribution theft! The key word being yet; whatever their relative status and influence, Mirage was not and had never been her friend or political ally. Emboldened, Prowl remained seated and raised only her doorwings so they were at a formal, authoritative angle. “It is good to be back.”

He knelt but didn’t wait for her permission to stand again. “I’m glad you’ve taken no harm from your… adventures.”

“My tour of Polyhex as Praxus’ first ambassador to their country,” Prowl rephrased, “was not free of peril, but yes. I’ve returned as fit as when I left, if not more so.”

“How fortuitous.” He invited himself to sit down at her table, nudging a few books out of the way, though not so much he disrupted her organization. He folded his hands in front of him and interlaced his graceful fingers. “I wish I could say it’s been absolutely dull here without you, but circumstances have kept things interesting.”

“So I’ve discovered. I found a great deal has happened during my absence when I arrived in Hightower. Lord Ultra Magnus was kind enough to fill me in on most of it, but,” whether the news was being concealed or Silvertreak’s capture was so recent that word simply hadn’t reached Hightower while she’d been there, “I learned only last night of what befell the Imperial Prince.”

“I sorrow for the Imperial Prince,” Mirage said with conscious and artful emotion. “It’s terrible that such a thing could happen.”

"It truly is. How long has it been now since the last communication?" He wasn't her first choice of resources, but she was already talking to him. She’d take what she could get.

“Over two months, perhaps more.”

Prowl did a quick calculation of the distances involved: from northern Kaon down to the capital in Iacon, and from there to Praxus. Two months wasn't an unreasonable amount of time to still be waiting on a demand for concessions or ransom from the rebels, but it was starting to push it. "And what of the Prime-Ascendant?"

For a moment, Mirage’s optics widened, though he didn’t show his surprise in his field. “I’m afraid I don’t know, your highness.”

"I see."

“I do hope Iacon can recover from its loss.”

"I would prefer to hope that its loss may yet be averted until it is confirmed beyond doubt." It  _ needed _ to be confirmed beyond doubt before certain decisions could be made or actions taken. In the meantime they were trapped in a holding pattern, trying to prepare for both the best and worst outcomes at once.

“As you say.” Mirage bowed shallowly over the table. “I’m sure there are many things that you would prefer were averted.”

"As I'm sure there are for you. The current state of affairs is hardly conducive to what I know of your interests," Prowl said, a much more delicate and roundabout way of trying to bring up his real purpose for being here than coming right out and asking what he wanted.

“Nor yours, Princess,” he returned, frustratingly sidestepping the unspoken question. “Perhaps for once we can find some way to align a few of them.”

"Is that so?" That sounded, of all things, like he wanted to see their interests work together; something they had never managed in the past because, despite their occasionally complementary goals, they differed too much on the fundamental, key points. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"

“If it pleases you, we can discuss the details later, but I have a number of projects that could use a good word. In the meantime, I do think it’s time certain policies regarding the exclusivity of the noble caste be... amended?” Mirage smiled and spread his hands disarmingly.

"Wowww," Sundance meowed, stretching her way through the exclamation. "He's actually trying to curry favor with you."

That did seem to be the intent behind his offer, yes. Mirage had never bothered to curry favor with Prowl before, not beyond basic flattery. Before Jazz had kidnapped her, she’d been young and relegated to the sidelines of politics, then after she’d been out of favor with the king. For him to be trying now meant he thought she finally had influence he could use. 

But she didn't. Did she? 

Revealing ignorance or uncertainty over something like that was the last thing she wanted to do. "I've long thought the same," she said since that was no secret. It was, in fact, one of those fundamentals they'd never agreed on. "You believe, then, that there is value in it after all?"

“I believe we can come to an agreement,” he said cautiously, which wasn’t itself an agreement.

"What he believes is that saying he does will get you to play nice," came Sundance’s meowed commentary. "Maybe he thinks you're holding a grudge over the way he undermined you as an ambassador and doesn't want you taking it out on him now that you're the heir again."

It wouldn't hurt to entertain the possibility and keep her options open... Prowl gave him a neutral smile, also approving without actual agreement. “We should take the time to discuss it when we have the leisure then.”

“Nothing would please me more, Imperial Princess.” Mirage’s smile was a copy of her own. “I do enjoy your company.”

What a patent lie. “You flatter me.”

“You deserve to be flattered.” His gaze, though perfectly respectful, now skimmed over what he could see of her form, indicating (with typical Praxan subtlety) that he meant more than just political flattery. Though it had taken her some time to get used to it, Prowl thought she preferred Jazz’s overt bragging to everyone in audio range about how she had  _ the prettiest mate ever _ to… this.

She preferred her clanmates petting her and making blatant propositions to… this.

Sundance shook herself. Prowl wished she could do the same, but his behavior really was perfectly unoffensive. It was just off-putting to her because it was Mirage, and that made any compliment feel purely politically motivated. Polyhexian sincerity was better. 

“Thank you,” she said simply, accepting his statement at face value.

“Anytime,” Mirage said in the same neutral tone that made it feel  _ slightly _ less almost-flirty and creepy. “Thank you for your time, Imperial Princess.”

Prowl inclined her head. “Until this evening.”

“I look forward to it.” Mirage stood and knelt… and this time he waited. Only after Prowl gestured with her doors did he rise and take his leave.

_ “Now  _ are you going to steal something from him?”

“No… well maybe.” Prowl scooped Sundance up to hug her and scratch her audial flaps. “I can’t exactly challenge him during the harvest,” a decree of the Polyhexian gods, supposedly so that the mechs and the dragons could come together and harvest their newlings peacefully. More likely it was an excuse to kick all the sometimes overbearing warriors off of the islands and harvest the newlings without having to deal with them and their rivalries until the Tooth Race. “But he hasn’t really done anything to challenge him over either.”

“Yet.” Sundance pressed her face into Prowl’s hand, demanding nose rubs. “Don’t like him.”

“I don’t like him either,” Prowl meowed, glad that even if someone else was listening, they wouldn’t be able to understand. She didn’t like not knowing what Mirage’s agenda was either. “I have a number of projects that could use a good word” indeed. Which ones? How good a word was he looking for? Did he have a  _ timetable _ in mind? “I’m not going to have the kind of influence he usually cultivates all that long.”

“Hopefully.” Sundance sneezed right into Prowl’s face.

“Ack! What was that for?”

The cat just flicked her tail. “It itched!”

“And I wasn’t scratching it right?” Prowl sighed but continued petting. “It bothers me that he wasn’t able to tell me anything about Arcee.”

“Why?” Her audial flaps tilted inquisitively. 

“Because it means there’s no way of knowing when or how I’ll be able to get in contact with her, and what she wanted to talk about is important. Not,” Prowl was forced to concede, “that it will make a difference to the war if it turns out the rebels aren’t using demon magic after all if they’ve killed either her or Silverstreak.”

“I will bite them so hard if they have,” Sundance yowled softly, and Prowl felt her plating bristle under her hands. “I really like Silverstreak.”

“I can hardly think of anyone who doesn’t.” He’d been so well received among the king and court it would have made her jealous if she’d had any desire for such recognition. As it was, it had only hurt when the king had made a point of how much better an heir Silverstreak was. That had been more about her than the prince though, and she knew it. Bonding with a “barbarian” compromised her neutrality on certain issues, and it eliminated her ability to make alliances through marriage, but Jazz was her resonant mate, and Polyhex her people. She would not, could not give them up just because Praxus found them problematic. “They’d  _ better  _ be holding him for ransom or leverage. I’ll flash-bang ‘em t’oblivion otherwise.”

Batting lazily at Prowl’s star-shell necklace, Sundance snickered, her tail waving back and forth. “Quoting someone, are you?”

“Sometimes Jazz has good ideas.” Actually, Jazz usually had good ideas. “I miss her.”

“You have a sparkbond,” the shipcat said as if she weren’t talking about the impossibility of reaching all the way from the City of Praxus to Hightower. “But I know it’s not the same. You can’t exactly frag through just the bond.”

“Pfft. I was thinking more along the lines of talking and cuddling with her, but there’s that too.” Shameless cat was shameless. “She wouldn’t be able to offer much in the way of advice though. Not with this type of politics.”

_ Bat, bat. _ The star-shell swung gently. “She’d think the answer to finding Arcee was to climb out the window and go trekking through the mountains to Kaon herself.”

She really would. Prowl tapped her fingers on the book in front of her, wondering why that  _ wasn’t  _ the solution. Someone should have been sent to find her, but she hadn’t heard of any such action being taken. Probably because Praxus was at the end of the chain of those to be updated on any developments and she hadn’t found whoever was in charge of communications, but still. “Since I can almost guarantee that Arcee thought the solution to Silverstreak being captured was to go trekking through the mountains of Kaon to rescue him, it would be unthinkable not to send back up after her.” 

Iacon, if Prowl understood how it worked correctly, couldn’t just replace its heirs. She and Silverstreak weren’t at all disposable, but if somehow they were both gone, the king could have the line of succession secured again before their funerary ashes had cooled. Iacon had some entirely different process for choosing their Primes… So Iacon would send people after Arcee, whether she’d been captured herself or had gone after Silverstreak. Praxus was just a long way away. 

“Maybe we should look at a map,” Sundance meowed. “You remember maps, right?”

“Of course I remember maps.” Prowl tapped Sundance on the nose, then shifted her out of her arms so she could find one for them to examine. It was large enough she needed to rearrange her mountain of books to make room for it. “Let’s see… if they disappeared somewhere along the northern border…” 

It was a strange thing, trying to calculate distances using just the image. She wasn’t fully comfortable with Polyhexian cartography — not that anyone on the mainland would call it that — but it was firmly rooted in experience. Distance became  _ how long it takes to travel _ and landmarks became  _ scent, sight, touch, rhythm… _ By comparison, this map was just… flat. 

On the upside, she didn’t need an interpreter. Or to travel the route herself once or more before she understood it. 

By herself, with no carriage or guards on zap ponies, the distance wasn’t as prohibitively great as she’d first thought. It would give everyone fits, but really, she didn’t need to slow herself with as many supplies as a normal traveler, just some. She didn’t know nearly as much about hunting or food-finding on the mainland as she did on the islands or in the sea. She’d probably have to stick mostly to the roads too, since mountain hiking could be slow and rough. She…

“I could make the trip.”

Sundance prowled around the edge of the map, peering at it. “Could,” she confirmed.

“I could probably make it to the Iaconi capital within a decacycle. Two at most,” if the roads were still blocked in places from winter. A fast courier might also make that good a time, but he wouldn’t have the same incentive or authority to get answers and make decisions when he reached their destination as she did. 

“So why don’t you?” The cat sat down to scratch behind her audial flap with the claws on her hind foot.

“They’re worried enough about my safety inside the palace as it is,” Prowl pointed out. “Getting approval for it will be difficult.”

Sundance just splayed out the toes of her hind foot and licked the dust from between them.

Prowl chuckled. “Of course I’ll still bring it up. I’m hardly as helpless as they think I am, and this is important.”

“Does that mean we’re planning a trip?”

“Yes. The sooner we can be ready to depart once the arguing is over, the better.”

Her spirit’s optics glowed with approval. 

Prowl spent the rest of her free time making plans. Fuel would be the hardest to carry. It always was. That was why mechs — especially nobles — often traveled in large processions. Fuel was bulky and heavy to carry, and every servant or animal brought along doubled or tripled the amount that needed to  _ be _ carried. Sure zap ponies were stronger than mechs, but it was a feedback loop that could quickly grow out of control, especially once the trip started including tents, carriages, and other comfort items, which slowed the procession and thus increased the amount of fuel needed.

A single, swift courier could travel with  _ much _ less fuel. 

“I’d better bring enough energon for two decacycles,” Prowl muttered to herself. Polyhex had taught her it was a real risk eating something she didn’t recognize, and that was the category most of the things in the mountains would fall into. There was always a more gruesome way for Kokako to die. “I can probably push myself a little faster with a little bit of night driving at dawn and dusk.”

“Probably. The moon will be pretty bright.”

“And the skies mostly clear.” It was possible they’d run into cloud cover, maybe even some snow, but the Praxan version of severe weather was finished for the… a while, at least. Prowl did some quick calculations and estimated the good weather would hold until after the storm season started. Then it’d be a lot of blizzards and snow deep enough to bury a kattumaram, but she wouldn’t be here then.

Anyway, driving for a little while in the dark would increase the amount of fuel she needed per cycle, but would reduce the number of cycles she was on the road. That would mean less fuel overall.

It was with some reluctance that she folded her stack of flimsies in half and tucked them in her bag so she could return to her suite and get ready for the court dinner. 

She found Citrine waiting for her, ready with a small assortment of jewelry and adornments. “I’m afraid these are the only complete ensembles I could find,” the valet said. She looked worried that Prowl would be upset by that revelation.

Prowl was anything but upset. The “missing” pieces of her other sets were packed away in glass bottles wrapped in blankets, and if Citrine hadn’t found them, it meant she hadn’t gone digging in things she shouldn’t. “Those are fine,” she reassured her, then pointed to the pieces featuring stormy blue-gray agates. “That’s the set I would have chosen regardless.”

Citrine looked dubiously at them but didn’t object. “Of course, princess. I have your bath ready.”

“Thank you.” Prowl headed in to it, unsurprised when Sundance hissed and made herself scarce. “You don’t have to hide,” she called after her.

“Already had a bath!” Sundance meowed back. “Not doing it again!”

She was rather inclined to let her familiar off the hook, honestly. Unlike the personal meeting with the king, where Sundance had been in her lap, she’d spend most of the dinner on the floor. Some lingering library dust on her plating wasn’t likely to be commented on.

It was kind of funny though, Prowl thought as she lowered herself into the hot bath with a contented sigh. Sundance was notorious for her dislike of getting wet, and most of her clan thought that extended to her — after all, she and Sundance were, to them, a single entity in two frames. But while Prowl  _ did  _ dislike cold water, and dirty water, and unexpected water, and rain when she was trying to do things, and salt building up on her plating from sea water, she  _ loved  _ soaking in a warm bath.

“I just found this, Imperial Princess,” Citrine came in holding out a sapphire pendant surrounded by round, iridescent shell inlays set to appear like small gemstones themselves that would go nicely with the agate set Prowl had already picked out (to go with the blue and pearl and rose gold of her crown). “Would it be a suitable addition for tonight?”

Prowl considered it, then decided, “Yes. Please lay it out with the rest.” She would rather wear her hikurere and kelapa charms, but they weren’t “rich” enough. That was probably why Citrine had suggested the sapphire; agates weren’t exactly expensive, for all that they were beautiful.

After setting the pendant aside, Citrine took up a sponge to clean the library dust off of Prowl’s plating. Prowl sat through it patiently, though she shook herself and flicked her doors repeatedly once she was dry to settle her plating. It was less than comfortable, but having a single valet, someone whom she at least knew her name, was better than a flock of nameless attendants at least.

Gentle fingers came to rest on the back of her neck, brushing her star shell necklace. “How do I remove this, princess?”

Prowl stiffened. “You do not.”

“Ah… of course, your highness.” The fingers questing for the knot in the necklace’s cord disappeared. “And this?” Citrine gave the long feathers of her armband a dubious look as she felt around for a catch or tie. 

It was on the tip of Prowl’s tongue to shut down that inquiry as well, but she hesitated. Wearing the armband was familiar and comforting, but she doubted the king and the court would appreciate it. “That can come off,” she said reluctantly before slipping it off herself. It didn’t have a catch or knot, at least not one that was meant to be undone, and Citrine didn’t know the trick of sliding it down her arm. “Put it on my trunk.”

“Yes, princess.” Citrine disappeared into the berthroom then returned with a tray, on which the agate set, the sapphire pendant, and her crown had been laid out. “Should I remove this piece,” she held up a short necklace of a chain set with square agates, “from the set then?”

“N— yes,” Prowl said, reminding herself which aesthetic she was working with. Polyhexians liked  _ all  _ the jewelry, even (especially!) if it clashed, but despite the Praxan tendency toward what Prowl considered overblown ornateness, it wasn’t supposed to look “cluttered”. Three necklaces would be overkill, especially since it looked like that one would overlap with the star-shell one.

“Yes, princess.” The valet set down the tray then left to put the necklace back where it belonged. 

She was back quickly. “Same polish as last night, princess?”

“Yes.” That one was easy. She didn’t need to glitter. 

“No polish,” one of the ottomans growled.

“You better be giving yourself a bath under there,” Prowl meowed to her familiar as Citrine started rubbing careful circles with a soft cloth until her plating shone. She took the lack of feline response to be a good thing.

Like the bath, Prowl endured Citrine’s help with the polish more pragmatically than happily. She wished a little wistfully for it to be Jazz, or even Wheeljack, helping her now. Not to mention how she much preferred the more durable, Polyhexian matte polish to having to do this every cycle.

Finally, washed and polished and prettied up as she was going to get, Prowl thanked and dismissed Citrine before sorting the most necessary spell components, the ones for spells she currently had memorized, from her spell bag out into a smaller, more decorative purse with a beaded chain just long enough to go around her wrist. “Come out, Sundance. It’s time to go.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Neither do I, but I’m going, so you’re going.”

“Bleh,” was her comment on that. Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a knock at her door.

Prowl rolled her optics and stepped into the entry room. “Enter,” she said.

The mech who came in was one of the king’s personal guards. Prowl thought she recognized him as one of the guards who had been at the meeting last night. She couldn’t imagine there were many mechs painted in that shade of yellow. 

He bowed. “His majesty the king sent me to fetch you for dinner, Imperial Princess.”

“Perfect timing. I just finished my preparations.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Lady Sundance of Greenfields.”  _ Now. _

The spotted cat slunk out from under the ottoman, visibly sulking. “Meanie.”

Prowl picked her up with a conciliatory ear rub. “We are ready.”

“The king is waiting,” the guard said, turning on his heel to lead the way.

This time they didn’t encounter anyone in the halls thanks to the simple fact that just about everyone of import was already in the banquet hall. King Bluestreak’s desire to make a presentation of her return meant she would be waiting with him to enter last, rather than mingling before the meal began, and Prowl was more glad of that than annoyed. She needed to hear the king’s official statement regarding her return to proceed effectively with the court, for one thing, and there would be more time for mingling after dinner besides.

She was led to a small staging room right outside the banquet hall. It was part of the servants’ network of passages, Prowl knew from her lessons in proper defense of the castle, but it was plushly furnished with goldsilk. As she was announced and knelt to the king, Prowl idly wondered if the servants left it like this in between banquets for the king to use, or if all of these things had been somewhere else in the castle a joor ago.

“Rise,” the king said. “You’re on time,” he added with amusement. “And you have your tiara.”

“Two cycles in a row,” Prowl dared to tease. 

“I hardly dared think it would be, but it seems your bonded’s people have been good for you in that regard.”

Sundance, still cradled in Prowl’s arms, snickered shamelessly. Prowl had to smother her own laugh as she told the king, “I also have the services of an excellent valet.” Polyhex did have their own ceremonial ornaments, yes, but her practice with them was completely untranslatable to keeping track of her tiara. The ketzal feathers and dog-shark spine hanging from her armband never came off, just like her star-shell necklace. It was impossible to forget to put something on when it was always on her.

“Well you made an excellent choice for ornamentation,” Bluestreak said seriously. “Just the right touch of the exotic, but nothing outrageously outlandish. Perfect for this reintroduction into the court.” He himself was ornamented as he often was for the grandest occasions, with a crown of gold set with rubies and diamonds, a purely decorative golden plate of armor over his chest, and a shimmering half-cape draped over his doorwings. Besides the crown, his only jewelry was his signet ring, but Prowl thought it was more than enough for him. 

By comparison, she felt simultaneously over and under-dressed. 

“I’m glad it meets with your approval.”

“I’m glad you’re home.” He gestured and a lurking servant poured a jeweled cup of something for each of them and delivered them on a tray. “Something sweet before dinner.”

“Thank you.” Prowl waited for the king to take a sip before partaking of hers. She nearly flinched at the taste;  _ sweet  _ was an understatement. 

Bluestreak seemed to enjoy it immensely though. “How often have I had you step into the hall with me?”

Prowl had to stop and think. “More times than I can readily count,” she said slowly, “but you never made a habit of it with me.” Not like he had with Silverstreak. “Certainly it has been several vorn since the last time.”

“I’ve told you to always have something to eat while we wait for the gossips to circulate, right? It, rather ironically, makes it easier to bear the meal when your tank isn’t empty when you walk in.” He swirled the energon in his cup and took another drink. “Though stay away from highgrade on an empty tank.”

“I’ve been grateful for your advice many times,” Prowl said with a bob of her doors. The slow pace of Praxan meals and the delicacy that was expected of how one ate made them a poor way to sate a voracious appetite. And as sickly sweet as this concoction was… well, Prowl had certainly had worse. It wasn’t actively poisonous like dirt crystals before they were processed into chuno, and it hadn’t been the newlings’ fault the acaju crystal had affected her more than them, even after burning off the irritating oil that coated the seed crystal. She wasn’t going to refuse something where the only problem was that it was too sweet.

“And many more times to come, I hope,” the king said with a chuckle.

“Only if it’s good advice,” Sundance said, her sass hidden behind the meows. She pawed at Prowl’s hand. “Don’t I get to taste it?”

Prowl had already lowered her cup for her cat to take a lick by the time she realized that, while it felt perfectly natural to share fuel with her spirit, she was getting a silently disapproving look from the king. 

“I do hope you don’t do that at the table,” he scolded mildly.

“No,” Prowl agreed quickly. “Once we are seated, Lady Sundance wanders off rather than begging at the table.”

_ “Could  _ beg at the table,” Sundance meowed, aggressively licking her whiskers to get the cloying sweetness off her face. “But I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Prowl meowed back, wincing again when Bluestreak’s disapproving look came back. It was frustrating to have every little thing she did scrutinized and come up lacking. She wasn’t stupid. She knew many of the habits she’d picked up in Polyhex were considered incredibly bad manners in Praxus. That, she could live with being censured for until she regained her Praxan rhythm. But the things that were  _ her,  _ like her spirit, her bondmate… it felt deeply wrong to deny those things for the sake of public appearance.

This time the king did not offer a verbal rebuke. “Drink up. I’ll have the herald announce us in a klik or two.”

Prowl nodded silently. She drank, and between sips, Sundance nuzzled her hand. She did not ask for a second sip, though.

Bluestreak set aside his cup to be emptied and cleaned while it was still half full, but Prowl went ahead and gulped hers down as soon as he’d turned away even though it almost made her choke to do so. Gah. That stuff was just too sweet. She made a note to herself to send someone to the kitchen to have something metallic or salty made for her next time if she was to do this again. 

Then, it was time. She scooped up Sundance before the shipcat could put any scratches in her plating climbing up on her shoulders, and followed the king out. This part she remembered perfectly well and fell into step behind and to his right effortlessly. 

A servant darted in to adjust his cloak while the doors to the dining hall opened, then darted away before they’d finished.

“His Most Honorable Imperial Highness, King Bluestreak of Praxus!” the herald called and the king stepped through. Prowl waited until, “Imperial Princess Prowl, royal heir of Praxus,” the herald announced her before following.

There was clear surprise on many of the faces present. A few managed to keep their expressions neutral enough that Prowl couldn’t tell whether they’d been caught off guard or not, but her return and elevation had obviously been successfully hidden for the most part. 

Mirage, of course, had a subtle, almost smug smile on his face.

“They forgot the rest of your name,” Sundance mewed softly. Prowl stroked her head and said nothing. She’d already known that her clan, and her role within it, wouldn’t be recognized in Praxus. Warrior-mage Prowl of Rainclouds Island engaged in piracy, after all.

As she and the king made their way toward the throne at the head of the ring-shaped table, the gathered nobles gracefully made their way to their own seats. Given how she was in favor — or at least the appearance of it — with the king, Prowl started to go to the chair immediately to the king’s left. It looked like that would put her sitting next to Mirage and she gritted her teeth, determined to bear…

Wait,  _ what? _ Mirage was taking that seat! 

Fearing her misstep was already obvious, Prowl looked for the plaque with her name etched on it and quickly found it… She was to sit on the king’s right.  _ Silverstreak’s _ spot.

He wasn’t dead yet. They didn’t have confirmation he was dead yet. 

_ I don’t belong here. _

All the training of her early vorn and the pressure of the optics in the room carried her feet forward as her thoughts ground to a halt. This is wrong.  _ This is wrong.  _ Her hand came to rest, calm and still, on the back of the chair when she reached it, but inside she felt like a bowstring trembling on the verge of snapping and she didn’t know which way it would fly when it broke. The protest was there, just waiting to burst past her lips, but this Was Not the time or the place.

Her fingers tightened on the chair.

The display at the center of the room was a gleaming bronze statue of two warriors astride zap ponies, facing off in battle, but Prowl barely saw it. She just waited silently for the king to finish addressing the court, welcoming her back to Praxus after her long adventure in the Rust Sea. He said nothing about Silverstreak, or about replacing him with her, but there could be no other reason for this seating arrangement, this formal welcome, the so-clear display of favor and solidarity the king had until recently reserved only for his younger heir… 

Lost in her thoughts, Prowl almost missed the cue to sit. When she did so it was rigidly, mechanically. Her face remained frozen as her spark whirled fitfully beneath her chest plating at the implications. Bluestreak was effectively declaring her first heir once again. Not the secondary heir, as she’d assumed — as she was better suited for! The only purpose this served was to send a message, and a powerful one, that Praxus was not vulnerable. That Praxus’ throne was secure, and that there was no value in holding a superfluous heir hostage because Praxus would not negotiate.

“Spirits and gods,” she whispered as a toast went around the table. 

The king had just all but signed Silverstreak’s death warrant.

.

.

.


	3. Part Two

.

.

.

“Why did you do it?” Prowl rounded on the king the instant they were behind closed doors. She’d excused herself from the banquet at the first opportunity, not even sure what she’d intended to do beyond getting away from any witnesses before her composure collapsed completely, but Bluestreak had followed her. Fine. If he’d picked up on her displeasure, they could have it out here and now. “Tell me.”

The two guards who’d followed him shifted, but the king waved for them to stay by the door. “Praxus must remain strong, or war will be the least of our worries,” he explained calmly and with a tone that said that was the end of it.

Prowl was far from done though. “When word reaches Kaon of what just happened, they’ll  _ kill him.  _ You just eliminated any reason for them to keep Silverstreak alive! I thought you wanted him back?”

“I do want him back. Every effort is being made to ensure he is found and returned alive.” Bluestreak turned from her sharply and went to the window to gaze out. He placed his hands on the stone sill, and Prowl saw the strain in that hold that he refused to show in any other way. “But Praxus comes first.”

“And this is the best way to serve Praxus, is it? The only way?” A note of pleading crept into her voice alongside her anger. There was nothing good about this situation. No easy way out. But while Prowl understood necessity, this wasn’t something she could accept. “Did you even consult with anyone about this?”

Bluestreak’s doors stiffened. “Do you think I made this decision  _ lightly? _ That I did not spend the better part of two months agonizing? But it had to be done. I don’t care about rebels in Kaon.  _ Praxus _ doesn’t care about rebels in Kaon. But if I negotiated with them, gave the impression for even a  _ nanoklik _ that I would, neither you nor Silverstreak nor any Praxan heir would ever be safe again!” 

“‘Any other heir’,” Prowl repeated hotly. “You said Praxus couldn’t afford three, but you’re back down to one right now. Why haven’t you selected another to begin training already?”

“Silverstreak isn’t dead yet!” The king whirled on her, doors flared out aggressively and Prowl realized her own had also flared out to match. 

“He’s as good as, after that declaration!!” Which was horrible, and hurt, and made her want to cry. “And I’m not a suitable first heir.”

“Just because Silverstreak  _ behaved _ better than you ever did does not make you unsuitable.” 

“My marriage does! I already have a bondmate, and responsibilities to her and to Polyhex—”

_ “You have responsibilities to Praxus!” _ Bluestreak shouted, cutting her off. The guards shifted again, but didn’t interfere when the king stopped to pull several harsh breaths into his engine to calm down. “Your bond exists, yes, and nothing can be done about it without unduly pissing off Iacon, but that is irrelevant. That barbarian of yours will either learn some manners and come here to be a proper consort, or you may visit her during the seasonal trades, but this selfish notion that  _ true love,” _ he spat the words, “entitles you to more than that  _ ends now.” _

Prowl grit her teeth, biting back an angry retort that would only escalate things further. She wasn’t being selfish! Except that she was, wasn’t she? But not unreasonably. Being honest about her shortcomings and conflicts of interest was as much about making sure the right person for the job was on the throne as avoiding the unwanted position herself. Wasn’t it?

Where was the line?

“You can’t tell me,” she ground out, dangerously quiet in comparison to the king’s volume, “that I don’t care about Praxus. When I first  _ met  _ Jazz I refused her for my duty to this kingdom. But in doing so, I learned what I’m capable of sacrificing for the sake of necessity — namely, I  _ cannot  _ deny the calling of my spark.”

“How convenient for you that you didn’t have to. Thanks to that blasted Prime insisting you were unsuitable for an alliance by marriage, I was forced to take on Silverstreak — something I had no other reason to do — to see the treaty through _. _ Now you have your bondmate, we have our alliance, and Praxus needs you. What more can you possibly need?!?”

He wasn’t going to like the answer, but it was the truth. “My clan,” Prowl declared.

Bluestreak’s optics narrowed to chips of ice, and Prowl heard him suppress a furious engine backfire. “Guards,” he said coldly, not looking away from her, “escort the Imperial Princess to her rooms and keep her there. I’ll deal with her later.”

He would, would he? Fine. They were far from done, but they weren’t going to get anywhere right now. Prowl glared back. “At your earliest convenience,” she hissed, then turned to face the approaching guards. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The red one looked to the king, and whatever he saw there had him nodding politely as the other opened the door for her. “Right this way, Imperial Princess.”

Sundance dashed in and climbed Prowl’s frame. “I’ll bite him!” she managed to yowl before the red guard plucked her up by the scruff, preemptively interrupting any claw-filled pouncing. Despite the cat’s struggles, he curled in his arms to hold her properly, instead of just dangling her by the scruff. Smart move on his part, since otherwise he would have had to deal with Prowl’s claws — metaphorically speaking.

She didn’t dare to cast the spell for physical claws, lest she use them on more than just the king’s guard.

“No biting,” she told Sundance, not even trying to keep the meows quiet. Damn what the guards thought of it anyway, and the king! “I appreciate the sentiment,  _ believe  _ me, but biting would just make things worse.”

Sundance yowled louder. “Let me go! How dare he!”

The red guard just held her securely. “Princess.” He nodded toward the waiting door. She walked toward, then through it without protest. 

“It’s alright, Sundance.”

“It’s  _ not  _ alright!”

“Leaving the room to calm down is alright,” Prowl amended. She wanted to scream as much as her cat before she calmed down, but that was better done someplace private. “Attacking the king or his guards because he thinks he can just lock me in my rooms until I cooperate with him won’t solve anything.”

Sundance calmed slightly. At least she stopped yowling loud enough to be heard on the city streets. “If he thinks he can lock me up at all…” she growled.

“Then he’s an idiot,” Prowl finished, clenching her hands. “He  _ is  _ an idiot.”

The two of them seethed all the way to her rooms and continued to as the yellow guard entered it silently to take her spell components and the stack of spellbooks she no longer needed — a standard precaution when keeping a known mage prisoner. Prowl didn’t tell them they were taking the wrong thing. It would not go well for any of them if the guard carrying Sundance might have  _ tried _ to take her familiar with them, in which case both she and the cat would have attacked them both. 

Tactfully neither mech wished her a good evening when they were done. They just closed the door behind them as they left. The red one released Sundance into the room an instant before the door closed. Sundance turned and swiped at him — hitting only the dark metal — anyway.

“Bite you too!” she hissed.

“It’s not their fault.” Prowl said the words, knew they were true, but couldn’t fully feel them herself. She was hurt, she was upset, and she was angry, and the worst of it was that she didn’t even have a real target to lash out at for any of it. What she wouldn’t give for a stand of ohe to take an axe to! Instead, she threw herself down on a couch, grabbed one of the cushions, and screamed into it as loud as she could before biting it.

On some visceral level that felt incredibly  _ real, _ the feral action was immensely satisfying, even without fangs. 

She resisted the urge to summon her claws and shred anything, punching out her remaining rage on the couch while Sundance charged back and forth across the suite several times. Her tiny feet seemed to thunder, and the occasional yowled outburst was almost therapeutic in her current mood. Any other time she would have called her cat’s behavior obnoxious, but right now Prowl saw absolutely nothing wrong with it.

She didn’t know how long it took for her tantrum to run its course. It was very dark — she hadn’t lit any lanterns — when she finally collapsed on the abused couch. Immediately Sundance jumped up and nuzzled her helm. 

“Bite him now?”

Prowl sighed. “I wish. I wish it would  _ help.  _ But it won’t. He thinks he’s doing the right thing.”

The shipcat copied her sigh, then sat down and curled her tail around her paws. “Maybe he is doing the right thing, for Praxus.” The glow of her optics and faint star spots intensified. “And if that’s the case, then it  _ is _ the right thing for a Praxan.” She looked into Prowl’s optics, tilting her ears forward. “The question is: are  _ you  _ Praxan?”

It should have been an easy question. Of course she was Praxan! She’d been harvested in Praxus, she had a Praxan frame, and she’d been selected and trained as a Praxan princess! 

A princess who never remembered her tiara, who preferred traveling to staying cooped up and learning new things to upholding tradition. One who had bonded to a Polyhexian warrior and been adopted by her clan.

One who had sworn herself to that clan as one of its warriors.

_ One sunrise, soon, you will need to make a choice. You cannot be of two worlds forever.  _ Carcharhinidae, the sharkticon god of warriors and places-not-Polyhex, had made that proclamation on the island of the gods. More than Epistemus had ever been, Carcharhinidae was Prowl’s patron god. If she ever wanted to return to Polyhex, to remain as one of Jazz’s warriors, his favor was essential, and he’d made it abundantly clear that it was conditional and what those conditions were. 

Prowl’s engine caught. “I’m supposed to be,” she said, trembling. “To be anything else would be selfish.”

Sundance nuzzled her comfortingly, but her meow was implacable. “I didn’t ask you who you’re supposed to be. I asked who you are.”

In her spark, Prowl knew. She’d known since the Karakia. The Prowl who’d returned to Praxus wasn’t the same as the one who’d left it. She had changed, and while she’d wanted the approval of those she cared about, even felt like she needed permission to be who she’d become once she was back in Praxus, the changes were real with or without approval or permission. Not having it hurt, of course, and that pain had made her continue to look for a compromise long past when she should have accepted there was none, but she couldn’t keep running from the truth. 

She’d put it off as long as she could. The time had come to choose, and mourning who she should have been was nothing compared to killing who she was.

“I  _ was  _ Praxan,” she told her spirit, staring into those unwavering, unblinking optics. “Now I’m Prowl of Rainclouds.”

Sundance didn’t smile, but she did lick her chevron proudly. “And what is Prowl of Rainclouds going to do about all of this?”

Prowl let out a somewhat strained laugh. “Probably get locked in the dungeon if she waits for the king to come talk to her.” If not for outright treason, then as a means of “convincing” her to acquiesce to his demands; either way, she couldn’t allow that to happen. She sat up, wondering how much time they had. “If he’s really angry he might make us wait a couple of cycles, but if he’s really desperate he could show up first thing in the morning.” Better safe than sorry. “We need to be gone by then.”

Sundance shook herself, then darted off under a table. She was back a moment later with a wingless firefly, still glowing. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Prowl cast her light spell, bringing the haphazard mess of the entry room into view. “Hmm. They didn’t get  _ all  _ of my spell components,” just the ones that had been in obvious places like her purse, her bag, and the largely empty apothecary chest in her study, “but I could really use some of what they took. Scout for me and see if you can find that purse while I take care of things in here?”

“Will.”

She opened the window and watched Sundance disappear into the night.

There wasn’t a lot to take care of while she waited for her to return, but what there was was important. Her door was already locked from the outside, but she went ahead and threw the second bolt so it was locked from inside as well. The plans for the mission to Iacon she’d hoped to propose had everything they’d need for a road trip laid out in a neat list, and she swept through the suite pulling together everything she could from it. Obviously there were some things she didn’t have, but she had more than enough jewelry lying around that she could use to purchase what she was missing once she was out of the castle. 

“Or out of the city,” she muttered as she stripped off the jewelry she was wearing so she could pack it too. There were things she could do to alter her appearance somewhat, but not being expected in an area went a long way toward not being recognized as well. Which brought up an important point: which way was she going?

She needed to get out of Praxus, that was a given. As soon as they discovered she was gone, Bluestreak would have the guard out looking for her to drag her back to the castle, and that would end with her in the dungeons awaiting exile or execution. But while the obvious answer was to retrace her tire tracks to reunite with Jazz in Hightower, Prowl wasn’t sure that was the right course to take. For one thing, it would be the first place they’d look for her, and for another… She looked at the plans in her hand again.

Prowl of Rainclouds didn’t need to ask permission to go to Iacon. She didn’t need to be a Praxan princess to care about Silverstreak or to answer Arcee’s letter. 

The mountains would be colder than the flatlands leading down to the coast. Citrine or another servant had made her bed, so Prowl pulled off the heavy, decorative quilt to get at the softer, lighter  _ and _ warmer one underneath and added it to the still-bundled pile of Polyhexian gear the guards had left behind as “harmless”. More fool they, but Prowl was grateful to have it and dug out her hikurere to put on along with her armband. The familiar drag of the long ketzal feathers through the air felt  _ good, _ and she felt the newer but no less comforting skritch of the spent dogshark spines against her plating. She left the sarong for now. Jazz could climb and swim perfectly well in hers, but Prowl still had trouble with the cloth wrapping awkwardly around her legs. 

As far as food went, she had the makings for hupa, spicy hexbugs, and some assorted seed crystals for a cycle or two.  _ Carefully _ supplementing that by hunting and gathering should see her to the next mining town, where she could buy fuel rations and first aid supplies… Anticipating that and other, unexpected expenses, Prowl grabbed several more pieces of jewelry. Nothing with large, distinctive gems, this time she focused on silver pieces since those would be less suspicious than gold. 

So. She had jewelry for money, a warm blanket and a dark blue sheet to cloak herself in from the extra blankets for her bed, her tarp, compass, rope, knives and sword from her Polyhexian gear… She briefly wished for her harpoon, but this was the harvest season, so she’d left it in the kattumaram with Jazz’s. She only had the steel xiphos on her because the Praxan sword was more of a status symbol than a weapon to a Polyhexian warrior, but it would be weapon enough on the road. 

She looked over Auroram’s journal. She really should leave it. It had no purpose for her in the wilderness, but she did not trust Praxus with it. She never had, not in the long term. But after tonight’s scene, with Bluestreak  _ abandoning _ Silverstreak to his fate, she wasn’t sure she trusted the king with it either.

She packed it. She could carry heavy loads of dirt crystals up above the clouds; a single book should be no hindrance. If it proved otherwise, she could abandon it on the trail and let whatever nature gods went unworshiped here on the mainland decide what to do with it. Now she just needed—

“Mmm-mph!” Sundance said from the windowsill, Prowl’s small wrist pouch of spell components clutched in her mouth. She set them down. “I couldn’t get the big bag.”

“That’s alright.” That would limit her to her most frequently used spells, but Prowl hadn’t really expected the cat to be able to retrieve the larger bag. “Thank you. What’s the guard situation out there?”

Sitting so it’d be easier to balance, Sundance scratched her audial flap with her hind foot. “There’s just the one outside your door, but there’s four more lurking in the hallway and stairs.”

“Five in total…” Prowl wasn’t really planning on going through them all, but once again felt they weren’t taking her seriously. “I’m assuming there are not, however, any guards posted on the rooftops?”

The cat snickered, licking between her hind toes to clean them. “Why would there be guards posted on the roof?”

“In Praxus? No reason at all.” Taking a small flake of one of her clanmates’ paint from her spell components, Prowl stuffed the purse into her bulging travel bag where it would be accessible and ran through her inventory one more time out loud. “Any suggestions?” she asked her spirit when she reached the end.

“Our entire war party and a cartful of Wheeljack’s spells,” the cat suggested seriously. “And Keahi, her husbands, and a dozen of her hounds, while we’re asking for impossible things.”

“I meant  _ practical  _ suggestions and you know it. Pest.” Prowl stroked her spirit’s head and canceled her light spell. It was immediately obvious where she hadn’t quite covered the glowing wake-light paint lines on her frame, and she adjusted the sheet and hikurere until they blocked them completely. “Okay.” Bag at her hip and bundle in hand, she stepped up to the window. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“What would Jazz say?” her familiar goaded.

“Climbing’s important?”

“Right!” With that, she leaped down to the window sill below theirs, a tiny shadow in the night.

Prowl shook her head. “Easy for Jazz to say. She’s been doing it all her life, and she’s built for it.” But Prowl had spent the last vorn practicing her climbing, and if she wasn’t built for it naturally, well, that’s what magic was for. With a quick word and gesture, she used the Polyhexian paint chip in her hand to alter her form into something closer to her mate’s. Her vision changed, both as a factor of the visor that formed over her optics and the reduction in height. It wasn’t a lot — just a few inches — but it made a difference. So did the shrinking of her doorwings, which, along with the thickening of her tires, would have thrown her off balance if the spell didn’t boost her innate dexterity along with everything else. The smaller doorwings did make her less back-heavy and would get in her way less while climbing, but the most important thing for this venture was the claws at the ends of her fingers. Perfect for gripping the imperfectly smoothed stone blocks of the castle walls.

“Least there ain’t any wera stingers,” Prowl muttered to herself. With quick prayers to Ketzal, goddess of magic, and the star Naik who climbed all the way to the sky, asking that she wouldn’t drop anything, herself included, she followed her spirit.

It was a long, looooooong journey down. Not so much because her rooms were high up, since they were only six floors above the ground, but because she had to check her grip, check for guards (there weren’t any on the roofs, but there was one sentry in a tower opposite her in the courtyard that she would be visible to if he turned her way), check her coverings so she didn’t stand out like a firefly on the wall — and that all while negotiating the bulky bundle of her belongings. She could, and did, use a rope to lower it from one ledge to the next, but that necessitated taking a less than straight route down. 

Thank all of the spirits and gods she didn’t actually  _ need  _ the spell to climb because it wore off before she made it all the way. It slowed her further on the last part of the descent to do without, but it  _ was  _ doable, and she couldn’t help a proud smile when she reached the ground.

“Wish Jazz could have seen that.”

“You’ll have to brag later,” Sundance mewed softly, slinking out of the darkest shadow at the base of the wall.

“Will.” Much later, since she wouldn’t be seeing Jazz for quite some time. “Please let her just stay in Hightower and wait for me,” Prowl muttered, knowing that the likelihood of her beloved doing any such thing if and when she found out she was in trouble was vanishingly small. “Alright. So much for the easy part.”

Step one had been getting out of the castle. Step two was to somehow get to the other side of the castle wall. Unlike the outside of the castle itself, that  _ was _ guarded, and well, and also well lit. Prowl could see the torches and patrolling guards from here.

How the frag had Jazz done this, carrying Prowl’s unconscious frame at that! 

“I didn’t see a break in the guards’ pattern,” Sundance meowed. 

“Good for them. Bad for us.” There had to be places where the concentration of guards was lower, somewhere she could climb up and get a clear view over the wall. She had all the shadows she could possibly ask for to jump to, but she needed a line of sight. 

All the climbing. Climbing all the things… 

“Come on,” she mewed softly. “I’m going to try to reach those tall trees at the back of the garden.”

“You know that after that feast earlier the garden will be lit and there’ll be nobles fragging in all the good hiding spots, right?” Sundance’s obvious  _ glee _ was a bit at odds with her warning, and she slunk out to trot in that direction in front of Prowl.

“I’m aware that the garden will be occupied, though I highly doubt anyone will be fragging.” Not unless it was a really good hiding spot, and the participants were prepared to be quiet. Or were too desperate to care, in which case there would be rumors about them and their improper behavior for cycles, as there had been about a certain princess and her barbarian bondmate in a certain garden shed.

Seeing the entrance to the glittery gardens guarded, she thought about how to best to enter. She could climb the wall. It wouldn’t even be difficult. The garden wall only went up to her waist, but this was not the shadowed side of the castle. She’d be spotted. On the other hand…

She crouched low to hide and took off the blue sheet covering her paint. She wrapped it in with her other things and, in a moment of distraction, pushed her belongings up and over the low wall. Then she stood and walked up to the gate, as confident as she could manage.  _ Spirits and gods, I hope… _

The guard on the left nodded politely. “Imperial Princess. Out for a late night stroll?”

“Indeed. I was feeling restless inside.” She almost hoped he’d quote her on that when he was questioned later. For now, it was enough that her guess had been right: the king hadn’t let any word of their argument get out. She couldn’t very well turn up at the main gate with all her things and say she was going out and expect no one would stop her, but an unencumbered stroll in the safety of the palace gardens? Of course, she was welcome to that!

“Well, it’s a nice night for it. Have a good walk, princess.” He nodded again, and his gaze went back to staring into the distance, watching for people who shouldn’t be there.

Perfect.

She strolled casually at first, taking note of who was near the entrance and what cover she could use before retrieving her things and hiding. The fewer people who saw her, the better, since Bluestreak would send his guards for her if he heard she was out of her rooms, and she really couldn’t afford to get dragged into a conversation right now either. Sundance was a great help there, scouting ahead and waiting for a path to be clear before meowing for Prowl to make her next move.

Soon she’d wound her way to the most impressive crystal specimens in the back of the garden. The largest tree, stories told, had been planted in the center of Praxus’ original hot spot to give shelter to the newlings. The hot spot had long since moved, but the tree remained. Spotlights made the trunks and lowest branches glitter brightly, seeming to glow of their own accord, while the highest branches created a nearly solid canopy that blocked out the stars and moon.

“Could climb that,” Sundance said, pacing around the base of it before stopping at one side. “Over here.”

Prowl joined her and saw what she meant: the branches here had grown in more convenient positions to use as handholds than anywhere else on the tree. “And once I’m up above the lights, I won’t be easy to see.”

The castle wall was visible from where she stood now. Hopefully, she’d be able to see over it from the top of the tree. 

She checked one more time that there was no one nearby, then wrapped the sheet around herself again to hide her paint and started to climb. No claws this time. On the islands, she kept several uses of that spell memorized because climbing, fighting, and nighttime… anything happened every cycle. She hadn’t anticipated needing the spell even once the last time she and Sundance had consulted here in Praxus, so it was lucky she’d had the one. 

Her belongings served as a convenient counterweight to help her get past a difficult part of the climb. By tossing the rope up over one of the higher branches, she was able to hold onto it to lean far enough to reach the handhold she needed without falling, then haul her things up like they were on a pulley. It was an immense relief to get up into the canopy and out of the bright spotlights. The back of the garden was empty at the moment, but that could change any klik, and getting caught scrabbling for a perch in the symbolically significant tree would not go over well.

She stopped to let her vision adjust, then looked out towards the castle wall. She could see the line of lights and the shadows of the guards there. Now she just needed to be able to see beyond them.

As she went higher, the branches became thinner and more fragile. Except for the lack of water below them, she could have been climbing through bakau roots, and that experience made this endeavor less frightening. Still nerve-wracking, but she didn’t lock up. She kept moving. She could do this.

The sound of voices below made her freeze. She didn’t dare even look, lest the glow of her optics betray her presence while Mirage and another noble passed briefly beneath. 

“They’re gone,” Sundance meowed softly.

Prowl could hear that, yes. The soft  _ crunch _ of their footsteps on the gravel path was fading. Should she wait another klik just to be sure? No, that would just give someone else time to come along. She needed to keep moving, and moving quietly.

Then, finally, she saw the grounds beyond the wall when she looked over at it. Yes!

“They’ll see you once you’re down there if you don’t get under cover fast.”

“I know that.” She could only shadow jump so far, and the end of her range would leave her standing out in the open just beyond the immediate reach of the torches. “But if we take off running, the movement could draw their attention.”

“What about there?” Sundance’s ears tilted and Prowl immediately saw what she was referring to: an overhanging roof, its shadow blinking with the flickers of torchlight. There, a pile of empty crates had been left, just barely hiding what was behind from view.

It was too far for her to reach all the way with her magic, but she could get close enough to bolt for it.

“Hold on.” Prowl made sure she had a firm grip on her things and that Sundance had a good grip on her before whispering the incantation to carry them from the shadows of the canopy to the shadows near the crates.

She forgot to account for the need to rearrange her feet as she went from hanging in a tree to standing on the ground. Off balance, Prowl struggled to stay upright as she staggered over to the boxes, knocking into them as she half-ducked, half-fell in a sprawl behind them. 

The guard didn’t call out a challenge, but Prowl could hear him approaching. There would be an archer staying behind to cover him. She did her best to squeeze herself into the shadow, out of sight, but knew it would be useless. She wouldn’t even be able to get up fast enough to run before she was caught.

“Frag!” Sundance hissed. “Stay quiet!” The cat flipped an empty jar onto her head. “Stinky! Bleh!” she yowled loudly and stumbled out into the open, hitting the side of the pile of crates and making the whole precarious structure wobble. 

The guard chuckled. “Was that you making all that noise?” He was still coming closer, but as Sundance moved away from the boxes he followed her. “Do you need help?”

Scrunched up in the shadow of her less-than-perfect hiding spot, Prowl didn’t dare try and watch Sundance bang the jar against the ground and scratch at it, complaining with loud, distressed sounds about how undignified, stinky, and generally horrible this thing was and how Prowl  _ owed her _ for her suffering!

“Come on, hold still so I can get it off for you!” The guard sounded both sympathetic and amused as he shuffled around after the miserable cat. Her yowl when he finally caught her was piercing, making Prowl flinch and the guard laugh. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff _ getitoff!” _ Prowl had to dig her fingers into the brickwork beneath her to keep herself still. It was… difficult… to resist the impulse to go help her own spirit. 

The jar audibly popped free and crashed to the ground, breaking. Sundance howled indignantly, loud enough to attract fire-hounds all the way from the islands! The ruckus more than rivaled the one Prowl had made with her fall.

“Ow!” There was a sound of scrabbling claws-on-metal, and Prowl saw Sundance darting away into the night away from her. “You’re welcome,” the guard called after the cat. Still chuckling despite getting scratched for his trouble, his footsteps headed back toward the wall, leaving Prowl undisturbed in her hiding place.

Thank all the spirits and gods, and her spirit specifically! 

Relief stole her strength and it took nearly a breem to find the will to start easing herself away from the crates and around the building. 

Something nudged her and she suppressed a screech of her own. 

Sundance looked up at her. “You owe me a thorough cleaning. With a washcloth, dampened with lightly scented oil, not a bath.”

“You got it,” Prowl promised right away. “Thank you. That was some good thinking.”

“That’s right! I’m awesome.”

“Are.” Ignoring the stink — which was nowhere near as offensive to Prowl as it was to her cat — Prowl scooped her up and kissed her. “You’re the best spirit I ever could have asked for.”

Sundance nuzzled her back. “I definitely am. Now let’s get out of here.”

Getting out of here was a very good idea. Still moving carefully and making sure to stay out of sight, Prowl worked her way out into the city. It got much easier once she was past the districts of the rich and noble; with those behind her, she didn’t need to be quite so furtive. It wouldn’t do to have someone call the constabulary on her because they mistook her for a thief! 

Unfortunately, it really was quite late at night, and unlike Polyhexians, Praxans didn’t just keep going once the sun went down. The city gates were locked up tight. 

_ Fortunately, _ there was a queue of mechs and femmes camping in the plaza rather than paying for lodgings at an expensive inn, waiting for the gate to open at dawn. Prowl wouldn’t look suspicious joining them, and as long as she got out before any messengers notified the guards here to look for her, she could drive out with everyone else and be just one more vehicle on the road to Hightower. From there, she could disappear into the forest and change directions without anyone being the wiser.

“Should get some sleep, if you can,” Sundance advised. “And eat something.”

“I can’t eat anything here.” The only fuel she had on her wasn’t very conventional, being stored in ohe stalks. Digging through her stuff to get at them would draw attention, as would the stalks themselves. Looking around, she found an unoccupied, relatively secluded spot to sit down and used her pack as a slightly more comfortable backrest than the stone wall they were up against. She wrapped the blue sheet around herself like she was cold to keep her paint from visibly glowing. “I won’t argue that I could use the rest though, especially if you’ll stay up to keep watch.”

“Can sleep once we’re on the road,” Sundance mewed pragmatically. “You drive too fast for me to do anything but ride along.”

“There is that.” She wasn’t safe, or safely away, yet, but something in Prowl relaxed. She looked up at the stars. They were noticeably different than those near Polyhex. Fainter, and further north. She looked for the pink star, Seadreamer, which had been a friend, a guide, and a comfort to her so often since she’d met Jazz, but without a telescope, it was far too faint to see. “Good night, Sundance.”

Her spirit curled up on her shoulder, ears and optics alert as she purred. “Good night, Prowl of Rainclouds.”

.

.

.

####  Two Months Ago

.

.

.

“Apostate.” 

The accusation was familiar, but Ratchet didn’t recognize the voice or the footsteps of whoever had just joined him in Darkwatch Pass’s veterinary chapel. He didn’t bother turning to see who it was. One of the other priests or the newer soldiers who still thought this posting would be their chance to bask in Primus’ glory, no doubt. It made no difference to him. After a month of enduring their open hostility, the general attitude of the outpost still annoyed Ratchet, even if he understood it. It stemmed from ignorance and fear, both of which had proven to flourish here on the border with Kaon. Precious few were those whose behavior toward him had improved much since his arrival. 

The bitter, disillusioned, and cantankerous part of Ratchet’s spark wanted to snap back, “What of it?” but he knew better. His position here was precarious enough without picking fights, and he didn’t have the energy to waste on them anyway. He had enough to do, getting things set up again after the last battle. Few came to him to see to their injuries, but he was grudgingly referred to when someone came to the temple for help with rust or a rash. The magic to cure diseases was rarer than that needed to heal a simple injury; Ratchet had been one of the few clerics capable of the spell before… before, and apparently the only one here who knew how to treat them medicinally.

Primarily, though, he tended to the company’s animals: the cavalry’s zap ponies and the infantry’s turbohounds. They would fight and die too, he thought bitterly, though no other cleric would bother healing them if they were injured.

Take the hound he had now, resting on a pad with a splint on his back leg and mesh patches all over his side and hindquarters. Those burns and broken struts were his rewards for charging in to draw enemy fire during the last skirmish. Thanks to him, the soldiers had returned with minimal damage. He deserved as much care as they did, and Ratchet wasn’t going to shortchange him.

Especially when he was better company than most of the camp.

In that way, he couldn’t blame H— the newling for preferring to be with the mother hound and the puppies he’d bonded with. He’d been a good person, and there were cycles — like this one, tending this neglected war-hound — where Ratchet felt like he was on the verge of following suit, stepping over the line from apostate to demon worship. 

Of course, there were those who thought he already had and was just hiding it. “Leave that alone,” Ratchet said, still not looking up at the intruder in his space. What did the mech think, that he’d find demonic icons tucked away in the toolbox? Inscribed on the inside of the lid? “I just finished organizing everything.”

The mech, whoever he was, just  _ harumphed _ and stormed off. Ratchet heard the door leading out into the rest of the garrison slam closed. 

It opened again just a nanoklik later. “So cheerful,” a different young voice drawled.  _ This  _ one Ratchet did recognize, and one of the mech’s own trained hounds came over to sniff at Ratchet’s current patient and licked his ear. “I seem to have caught you in a good mood.” 

_ Drift.  _ Ratchet turned off his optics. So they were here already. “I wasn’t expecting Her Highness until tomorrow.”

“Her Highness,” Drift sounded amused as he came closer, though the huntmaster’s steps were very nearly silent, “is too busy getting settled in for the night with her new bondmate to come anywhere near  _ here. _ They’ll do their inspection next cycle, as scheduled.”

“Well, good. I’m not ready for her right now.” He wasn’t ready for Drift either, but apparently, that didn’t matter. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said anyway. 

“Oh, you are totally wrong about that.” Ratchet could practically hear him grin. “You’re the camp vet, right?”

“Yes. I am.” Why was that relevant? Wait… Ratchet turned his optics back on. The dog investigating his patient appeared to be fine, but Drift had two. Sure enough, the other was sitting docilely at his master’s feet when Ratchet turned to look. “What happened?”

The dog hung his head dramatically, looking up at Ratchet with a soulful look that the cleric knew Drift must have been teaching him deliberately. He let out a pathetic whine and wagged his tail across the floor, presenting his bandaged paw (again, Ratchet was sure, as he’d been taught to do). 

“He must have stepped on something while we were hiking in,” Drift explained, almost unnecessarily. “One of our escort — Bulkhead, I think — carried him the rest of the way when he started having trouble, so he hasn’t been walking on it much, and I bandaged it as best I could, but…”

“I’ll take a look.” Ratchet didn’t need the cute act to convince him, even if it was kind of adorable. Not that he’d admit it, of course. He carefully didn’t make optic contact with Drift as he came over and easily hefted the large canine up into his arms. “Let’s get you settled up here, alright?”

The dog didn’t wiggle or struggle. He seemed resigned. For his part, Drift finished letting himself in and joined his second hound next to Ratchet’s first patient, who wagged his tail in greeting. Ratchet had never seen Drift fail to connect with a turbohound. There were times he couldn’t help but think it was ma— no. He couldn’t think that. There was nothing magical about Drift’s ability to train turbohounds. Just aptitude and skill. 

Still, Drift’s hounds were always some of the most well-behaved patients Ratchet had ever had.

“You did a good job on this bandage,” Ratchet said as he unwrapped his paw. The strips were wound securely without being too tight, providing protection without aggravating the injury. He’d definitely stepped on something, and while someone — Drift, presumably — had removed most of the offending material, there were a couple pieces of debris lodged deep in one of the tiny seams of his foot. “I’m going to need some tools to get these last bits out. You’ve got them wedged in there good,” he told the hound, patting his head before heading for the toolbox. “Really persistent gravel,” he said to Drift. “He’ll need a little bit of time for the ache to go away once it’s out, but he’ll be good as new soon enough.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t want to have to carry him when it was time to leave.” Drift sighed. Still not looking at him, Ratchet heard him move over to the table. He’d dealt with enough worried pet owners to guess he’d moved over to pet and comfort the dog. “Kizzy’s special.”

“Kizzy?” The dog’s name, of course, and surprisingly familiar once Ratchet heard it. Drift must have told him at some point, but he couldn’t remember… “What about the other one? Isn’t he special too?”

“Of course he is! Tizzy,” the dog in question looked over at his name, then realized he wasn’t being called and went back to sniffing the corner of the room, “and Kizzy are equally special.”

Ratchet snorted at Drift’s enthusiasm. “Good. It wouldn’t be fair to play favorites between them.” It wasn’t fair to play favorites between people, either, so why…? He shook his head. Thoughts like that were why he could hardly manage even a minor laying of hands anymore. At least his tools worked reliably regardless of the state of his faith. “Will he hold still for me?”

“Yeah.” Drift made a fist at the Kizzy’s optic level, then opened his hand flat, palm down. Obediently, the dog lay down and rolled over so that Ratchet could access his paws, and Drift rewarded him with a brief belly rub. “Go ahead, doc.”

“Thanks.” Gentle but firm, Ratchet took Kizzy’s paw. He pressed the plating apart to get into the seam, nudging the debris to where he could grab and remove it with a pair of fine tweezers. Kizzy whined, but didn’t wiggle or try to pull his paw free. “Good dog,” Ratchet told him. “Good dog.”

Drift didn’t interrupt while Ratchet was working, except to punctuate the praise with silent scritches on Kizzy’s belly, neck and audial flaps.

Ratchet checked that there weren’t any hidden cuts left by the debris when he got the last of it out, then worked a healing salve into Kizzy’s paw before wrapping it back up. “All done. The bandage can come off tomorrow as long as he isn’t limping on it.”

“Thanks, Ratchet.” Drift patted Kizzy, who stood up and jumped down off the table happily. “Have you eaten? I could fetch something.”

“What?”

“Well, I know you aren’t going to come down to the mess hall,” Drift said, a little sardonically. He gestured around the room Ratchet had been given. “You’re going to want to clean everything before the inspection. So I offered to go get some fuel.”

Clean up for the inspection. Sure. That was why he didn’t want to go to the mess hall. The mechs who didn’t want him showing his face there had nothing to do with it. “You don’t have to,” he began.

“It’s no problem,” Drift interrupted, insisting. “I’ll be right back.” He clicked his tongue twice, and both Tizzy and Kizzy followed on his heels, Kizzy moving much more easily now that the debris was gone. “I’d ask if you want a specific flavor, but something tells me they’re only going to be serving one thing.”

“Your something would be right.” At least the one thing they were serving wasn’t horrible, and they got full rations. For now, at least. That could always change. “Unless they’re making an extra effort for the princess, but that’s not likely to benefit the rank and file.”

“The Prime-Ascendent,” Drift said neutrally, in the sort of flat voice someone adopted when he’d been scolded too many times for using a too-familiar form of address by someone other than the addressee, “has already nixed that, though she has allowed a single dessert item to be made for her bonded since we’ll be here a few cycles. This military tour has been harder on the Imperial Prince than expected.” Drift smiled, a little cheekily. “Be right back.” He scurried out.

Ratchet sighed. “Of course it’s hard on him.” It wasn’t talking to himself if he still had the other dog here, right? He stroked the thing’s plating, then set about putting away his tools. “The prince is barely more than a newling.”

Since he really didn’t want to get dinged during the inspection, in fact, he’d really like it if they just ignored him entirely, he went ahead and started tidying up. He kept everything clean, and in its place, but sometimes the more uptight — or those looking for a reason to criticize him — took issue with his system because it  _ looked  _ somewhat haphazard. He wasn’t about to change for them, as long as they didn’t break anything, but the Prime-Ascendant was different.

Eating with Drift was the last thing he wanted to do, but the youngster would be hard to turn away once he came back with fuel. Ratchet didn’t have the words to explain his desire for distance from him any more than he’d had for Orion to explain… anything, really. Not in a way that wouldn’t dig him into a hole he had no chance of climbing out of. The questions he had weren’t ones people were supposed to ask.

Drift would probably ask questions though. He always did.

Sure enough, when Drift returned he was holding two cubes of the mess hall’s fuel mix, a sure sign he intended to stay here to consume it. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Ratchet nodded over at the space he’d cleared. “You can leave mine there.”

Drift did so, then (because Ratchet’s clinic only had the one chair — his) grabbed a large pad from one of the dog beds in the recovery area and plopped himself down on it. Kizzy lay down with him, draped across him like a lap cat, while Tizzy flopped down to put his back against his master’s legs. “Do you mind?” he asked like it wasn’t a foregone conclusion.

So much for his futile attempt to encourage him to go. “Make yourself at home,” Ratchet said, giving up on his tidying and claiming his chair. The first sip of fuel reminded him he actually was hungry, and he might have skipped going to pick it up if Drift hadn’t brought it to him. “Thank you.”

Of course he took that as his cue to strike up conversation. “I was sorry to hear you’d been shipped out,” Drift said. “I would have liked to see you at the wedding. You haven’t met Silverstreak yet, have you?”

As if he would have met him even if he had been at the wedding, with all the ceremonies and rituals taking up all of the royal couple’s time and attention. “No, I haven’t. I saw him when they returned from Praxus, but that was from a distance.”

“He’s nice,” was Drift’s judgment. “Kind. He’s a follower of,” he lowered his voice with a glance to the door, as though they’d be walked in on any nanoklik,  _ “Solomus. _ Isn’t that weird?”

“Not in Praxus, I’ve been told.” The five members of the Guiding Hand supposedly shared in prominence in the prince’s homeland. Ratchet had found that weird when he’d first heard it, but now… “It seems to work for them.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to try and accuse the Imperial Prince of Praxus of heresy for worshiping a member of the  _ Guiding Hand,” _ Drift huffed. “It’s just so strange. I’ve been to Praxus, but it’s still so weird that there’s places, where Primus isn’t the only one. At least the prince has been nice about it.”

Right; Drift had gone to Praxus back when the Prime-Ascendant had been engaged to the Praxan princess. “I hope it isn’t too strange for him being among so many for whom Primus is the only one. The mech has enough on his plate with the way things have been going with Kaon.” Ratchet paused, realizing something. “They worked something about that into the wedding prayers, didn’t they?”

Drift smiled knowingly. “The Praxan delegation had a Solomnian priest with them who said the rites for the prince, and otherwise Praxan weddings aren't that different than ours so it wasn’t too disruptive.” Dipping his finger into his fuel, Drift touched it to each of his hounds’ noses so they’d lick it off and get a taste. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”

Ratchet remembered the temple in its full glory. How the sunlight, Primus’ light, streamed in through the stained glass windows and set the marble walls to sparkling. The way the dais gleamed and the music echoed up into the vaulted ceilings. The aura of protection and peace that encompassed everything and everyone within its walls. 

The memory hurt.

“I’m sure it was,” he said softly. 

Drift looked askance at him, sensing something was wrong. “You should come to breakfast. The prince has been teaching Hot Rod how to play Chaturaji, and it’s pretty funny.”

“Come to breakfast with the royals? Me?” That really wasn’t the best idea. “I don’t want to cause unnecessary trouble.”

“You’re lonely,” Drift said bluntly, “and if mechs here see you’re with us, they’ll treat you better.”

“If mechs here see you with me, they’ll treat you worse. You do know why I’m out here, don’t you?”

“Because you don’t want anyone to help you?”

“Because— it’s not about  _ wanting,  _ Drift!” Primus knew he wanted help! But even Primus wasn’t helping, no matter how much he prayed. “And no, that’s not why I’m here.”

“There are lots of people who can’t cast spells,” Drift said blithely. “I can’t cast spells.”

“You’ve never cast spells,” Ratchet countered. “You weren’t known across the entire country for your spells.”

“I remember,” Drift said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you should be shut up in here because you can’t now.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t mean that.” In some respects, Ratchet would prefer it didn’t. A part of his isolation was self ~~pity~~ imposed, but the rest was a defense mechanism against the suspicion and prejudice aimed in his direction any time he stepped out the door. “But it does, and I don’t want to drag anyone else down with me.”

“Is that why you keep trying to drive me off? You don’t want to ‘drag me down’?” Drift scoffed. “I’m a huntmaster. There isn’t a lot associating with a supposed heretic can do to sully my reputation.”

There was an element of truth to that, sadly. Iaconi tactics relied almost as heavily on their war-dogs as their paladins, yet in spite of the essential role they played, huntmasters didn’t get the same measure of respect that other members of the guard or military did. “What about the princess’s reputation?” Ratchet asked, trying a different approach.“You’re a good mech, Drift, and a damn good guard. Don’t put her in a position of having to replace you.”

“Over one breakfast? Come on, Ratchet. You’re evading the question.” 

Of course he was evading the question. He couldn’t very well tell Drift real reason he could barely bring himself to look at him, especially sitting there so comfortable with his dogs… He risked a glance. The phantom image of another mech, another who  _ should _ have been a huntmaster, overlayed on his vision, and Ratchet shook his head and looked away again. 

“No, Drift,” he said tiredly. “I’m not coming to breakfast.”

There was a pause where Ratchet thought Drift was going to keep pushing, but he didn’t. Instead, he launched into a description of their journey. The inspection tour was going well, for the most part. Confirming their defenses were holding up and that their supply lines were solid was nice, but the flip side of that was confirming that the additional resources they were committing to the border were necessary. At some posts that had been confirmed on flimsy, with the commanders going over their maps and reports with Arcee and Silverstreak, but at others, there had been actual combat.

“No full-scale battles, thank Primus,” Drift said with gratitude, “but the prince is definitely getting a crash course on all the harsh realities of war.”

Ratchet frowned. The Imperial Prince was far too young to be exposed to such physical and emotional hardships, but it wasn’t his place to criticize Praxus for the King’s choice of heir. Given her reputation as a bookish scholar, there really was no guarantee that the older princess would have fared any better. 

“He wasn’t injured,” Drift said quickly. “Not badly, at least. It helps that he’s training in archery. Keeps a good distance between him and the enemy, but it doesn’t shield him entirely from demon magic — or snapped bowstrings.” 

“Ouch.” That was never pleasant. “How bad did it get him?”

“Arm, not helm, luckily. The weapons master was beside himself thinking he’d done something wrong, but it turned out Silverstreak just fired too many arrows too quickly for the bow to handle under the conditions. He’s got a better one now, and likes it a great deal.”

“As long as he doesn’t snap the new one too.” Ratchet shook his head. He was only passable with a bow and had snapped the bowstring on more than one fumbling with them.

“Primus willing.”

Ratchet tried not to wince.

“I think I need to recharge,” he said quietly. His chapel still wasn’t the tidiest, but he wanted Drift to go away, and couldn’t quite bring himself to tell the youngster that. “Inspection right after dawn prayers and all.”

Drift looked like he wanted to argue, but closed his mouth on whatever he was about to say. “I should let you get some rest then,” he said after a pause. “And I still think you should come to breakfast,” he added as he nudged the dogs to get up so he could stand and put the pad back where it belonged.

“I’m not coming to breakfast,” Ratchet repeated, resisting the urge to snap. Drift meant well. It wasn’t his fault that— It wasn’t his fault.

Drift let the comment go. Ratchet hoped he’d let the subject go too, despite his parting words. “Rest well, Ratchet. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Rest well.” And because it would help Drift, though it would do nothing for his own peace of mind, Ratchet added, “Primus bless.”

He could hear the smile in Drift’s echo. “Primus bless.”

Then he was gone, leaving Ratchet once again alone with his doubts. 

.

.

.

Ratchet hated dawn prayers. Back in the First City he’d long since ceased venturing out to attend public services in favor of performing them privately in the worship alcove of his chapel. As a cleric, in addition to asking Primus for guidance and Light like everyone did, dawn prayers were about thanking Him for the privilege of acting as His agent here on Cybertron and praying for the continued ability to heal and divine the fates of mortals and perform all the other feats of magic that had moved beyond his reach.

Well, he still asked. Every cycle.

_ Why? _ he begged each morning, just between him and Primus, and Primus never answered. Instead of the feeling of being touched by, filled up with, divine power, ready to go out and face the world with surety, Ratchet’s prayers left him feeling forgotten and empty. 

He couldn’t forego them, though. Not just for his sake, as he’d found one particularly low cycle some time ago when he’d made the conscious decision to skip saying them even in private — he’d felt so terrible about it he’d assigned himself a penance for it — but for the sake of camp as well. It would be immediately noticed if he neglected to attend the one and only public service each cycle, and no one here would believe he was keeping his own observances. Ratchet wasn’t about to let his personal problems create havoc among the garrison by giving them more reason to believe he was a dangerous heretic (or worse, a Kaonex plant), so every morning he dragged himself out of his refuge and headed to the center of camp where the other priests took turns leading everyone in their devotions.

But it wasn’t a priest heading up the congregation at the altar this morning. It was the Prime-Ascendent, Princess Arcee.

_ Frag. _

Supremely uncomfortable and feeling distinctly unworthy, Ratchet forced himself into his place at the back and stood still, hoping not to be noticed. 

When she began to speak, it was immediately clear that Arcee did not have the sheer weight of divine presence Orion did, the aura of the living god. There was, however, something undeniably special about her; something even an apostate like himself couldn’t deny. Her slight stature in no way diminished the power in her voice. It carried over the assembled crowd all the way to the back where Ratchet stood, and her aura, while that of a paladin, not a priest, was strong enough to touch even his cold, doubting spark. 

Unfortunately, the comforting warmth of her presence flickered and failed all too quickly. She led the service with a calm, confident cadence, but the familiar words brought up the same familiar questions for him, and he struggled with them in silence apart from the prescribed responses that punctuated the prayers. Seeing her now, like this, it certainly seemed like the divinations that had identified Arcee as the future Prime had been accurate. 

But then, what had  _ happened _ with— No. He would not think of that here. There was a wealth of difference between one possibly demon-touched newling, and  _ the Prime-Ascendant. _

So  _ why… _

As usual, Ratchet’s thoughts chased themselves around in a circle and left him right where he’d started by the end of the service. He tried not to dwell on it, for once. The upcoming inspection was a legitimate distraction, and he headed swiftly back to his quarters to put the finishing touches on his space and his composure. 

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he outright hid when he saw Drift so the mech couldn’t drag him to breakfast.

It was hard to miss the sounds of Arcee and Silverstreak’s procession when it began. Of course, they were being shown the best and most impressive parts of the garrison — like the main temple, which was redundant after this morning’s prayers unless Silverstreak was extremely interested — first, but they’d work their way down to the veterinary/disease treatment space eventually.

After what felt like forever, they finally arrived at the medical “wing”, as it were. The head priest, Pharma, greeted and introduced the other priests there to the royal party, and Ratchet heard Arcee and Silverstreak both acknowledge them. He resisted the urge to hover in the doorway; he couldn’t help eavesdropping to some extent, but that didn’t mean it was a good thing to do.

“Everything looks… well-supplied? What about… shortages of…” 

Arcee was doing most of the talking, though the questions Silverstreak interjected on occasion proved he was paying attention and doing his best to understand what was going on around him. To Ratchet’s surprise, Silverstreak actually did seem interested in the various trappings of religion in the temple and woven throughout the camp, asking what the purpose of everything was. 

Ratchet also did not miss that, though Arcee was extremely protective of her new bondmate, she encouraged him to step out from her shadow and explore things for himself. “You don’t have a great deal of space here compared to the size of the garrison,” the prince said from over where Ratchet knew the recovery berths were. His Iaconi was ever so slightly accented, but otherwise flawless. Ratchet wondered if he’d learned it before being harvested along with Praxan. Once in a while that happened in Iacon too, though more often in the border towns rather than the capital. “In the event of a battle with significant casualties, where would the additional wounded be housed?”

“The nearest barracks would be converted if additional beds were required,” Pharma said. Ratchet still wasn’t sure what the priest’s story was. Harvested from one of the northern settlements near the border with Vos, obviously, given his frametype. Talented enough as a cleric and healer, he could qualify for a post in the First City, but his attitude wasn’t one the Bishops or the Prime would tolerate. Ratchet wouldn’t have tolerated it either if he’d had a choice in the matter. “There is also room for overflow in the veterinary clinic.”

That was only true if there hadn’t been any significant animal casualties, but it was Ratchet’s cue to stop listening and pretend to be busy. 

A klik later, they darkened his doorway. “Our vet, Ratchet,” Pharma introduced him with distaste, and Ratchet put down his tools and knelt as was expected. 

“Ratchet?” There was a questioning note in the princess’s voice. “Not  _ the  _ Ratchet?”

He could hear Pharma grit his teeth. “Not anymore,” Ratchet said tiredly, optics fixed firmly on the floor. He was no longer  _ the _ anything, except maybe  _ the _ apostate, and he did not deserve to look up at the Prime-Ascendant. Friendship and familiarity could circumvent that with Orion, but he had no claim to Arcee’s affections.

“You know him?” Silverstreak asked, completely innocent.

“Yes,” Arcee said with a measure of surprise. “He was a cleric in the First City since before I was harvested. Before  _ Optimus  _ was harvested. I’d heard…” She trailed off, and Ratchet wondered just what it was she had heard. There was more confusion than suspicion in her voice for her to have heard the worst version of events, but she obviously hadn’t been expecting to find him here. “How long have you been at this post?”

“Just a few decacycles, your highnesses,” Ratchet answered respectfully. 

“Have there been any issues in that time?”

“Here?” She was asking  _ him? _ “I have not noticed any,” he said carefully, aware that Pharma would just love a reason to do away with him as soon as the royals had moved on. Now was not the time to throw anyone under the bus.

Suddenly, Silverstreak let out an excited squeak. “Oh! Oh, I mean, I apologize for interrupting,” he said. Ratchet didn’t look up, but saw the prince’s feet turned toward the bed where his current patient was resting in his peripheral vision. There was a brief pause, probably a short exchange of looks, and then he was walking over to the hound for a closer look. “What happened to him?”

“A fire spell while wearing metal barding,” Ratchet said, skipping over the gory, clinical details to spare the newling’s sensibilities. He didn’t know if the hound had been hit by demon magic, simple alchemist’s fire, one of the rebels’ novice wizards, or even if it mattered. It certainly didn’t matter to the dog. “And several arrows that penetrated both layers of armor.”

“The poor thing.” Ratchet risked a glance to see Silverstreak bent down to optic level with the dog, patting his snout gently. The prince was a handsome mech. Classically Praxan, the frametype that country guarded so jealously, his plating gleamed and sparkled even after who knew how long on military tour. He had a stripe painted on his chest in Arcee’s blue, which she had copied with his silver, the first time Ratchet had seen the new rumored fashion trend among bonded mechs in Praxus. An elaborate gold crown set with red gemstones framed his equally sparkling red chevron. “You were very brave.”

_ He’s nice,  _ Drift had said of him.  _ Kind.  _ Ratchet found himself agreeing with that assessment.

His furtive glance also revealed that Arcee was watching him rather than her bondmate, frowning thoughtfully as though trying to divine how exactly their paths had come to cross here and now through optic contact alone. Ratchet stayed silent under her scrutiny until she sighed. “Get up off the floor,” she commanded. “Silverstreak,” her voice softened with affection, “would you like to come back and visit the patient after the tour?”

“If time permits, yes,” Silverstreak said diplomatically. 

Great; did that mean he would be back, or not? Ratchet wished he could ask to clarify as he stood and stepped back. It would be  _ not _ if Pharma had anything to say about it, which he undoubtedly would once they were out of Ratchet’s hearing. 

“I did have another question.” The prince looked to Arcee, who didn’t nod to give permission, but gestured for him to continue. “The last skirmish was a few cycles ago, right? So why is he still here, instead of using magic to speed up his recovery?”

_ Because the Great Merciful Primus doesn’t consider animals worth wasting His attention on! _ Ratchet bit back the words — they were not his own, but no less true for it — while Pharma answered with a much smoother explanation. “That magic is limited, and we prefer to reserve it for soldiers in the event of another skirmish.” 

“Which can happen at any time,” Arcee acknowledged and, probably, reminded. 

“Ah. Yes.” The prince’s Praxan doorwings drooped and his field dimmed. Ratchet felt a pang of sympathy for him. He wasn’t displaying the signs of one traumatized by battle, but he’d definitely seen real fighting already in his short time in the light and it was weighing on his spark. “Of course you are making the best use and distribution of your resources.”

“Quite right.” 

Arcee went over to Silverstreak and the injured hound. She put a hand on his arm and petted the dog herself, and the much younger mech smiled at her. They didn’t look like a pair of mechs in love, Ratchet mused, but they did look like they were getting along. She spoke to him briefly in Praxan; Ratchet could  _ almost _ make out the words but wasn’t able to follow along. 

Silverstreak, of course, could, and stepped away from her and towards Ratchet when she finished. “Your service to the care Iacon’s fighters is to be commended,” he said solemnly.

“I merely do as Primus wills,” Ratchet said, the formula response leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He  _ would  _ do as Primus willed, and gladly! It was all he had ever wanted. If only he knew what Primus’ will  _ was. _ He would have healed the dog if he could, but as serious as his wounds had been, he’d never been in danger of dying as long as he got care, and so apparently it was Primus’ will that he and Ratchet both muddle through.

Unaware of the effect his words had had, Silverstreak nodded.

He insisted on staying for several more kliks, looking around and asking questions, which Ratchet answered dutifully. Pharma didn’t go so far as to fidget, but it was obvious he wanted the royals out of there. Arcee, though, was having none of it and shut down every one of his attempts to get them moving, providing a unified front for her bonded. They had a good dynamic together, for all the differences they had to overcome, and it was a comfort to see such confidence in their country’s future leadership.

When at last the royals left, Ratchet allowed himself a sigh of relief as he collapsed into his chair in solitude. 

He wasn’t alone for long though. “See? He’s nice,” Drift said, letting himself in. Tizzy stayed by his side while Kizzy trotted forward without any sign of injury and licked Ratchet’s hand.

“Yes, he is.” Ratchet smiled at Kizzy, waiting for him to finish licking before holding his hand out palm up. “Show me?”

Drift clicked his tongue, and the hound obediently put his paw in Ratchet’s hand.

“Thank you.” He was pleased with what he saw. The plating wasn’t hot or aggravated, and Ratchet gave Kizzy a pat on the head when he let him go. “Looks like I can give you a clean bill of health.” It was a small victory, but he’d take it. “Aren’t you falling behind on the tour?”

“It’s Hot Rod’s turn to shadow them through the tour,” Drift answered. “And the Imperial Prince has his guards as well. What I really should be doing is sleeping. I have night watch.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Ratchet said. It came out sharper than he’d meant it to. “I’m sorry. The inspection must have been harder on me than I thought.” Mostly because it had been so different from what he’d expected.

“I can short myself a few joors without problems,” Drift said gently, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Everything. “I don’t know,” Ratchet lied. “You don’t need to worry yourself over it though, alright? Go get some sleep.”

Drift looked down at Tizzy, then over at Kizzy. Both hounds looked back at him, making optic contact on cue. “Yeah, I don’t believe him either.”

“Cute trick,” Ratchet huffed. Why was Drift being so persistent? “Look, it’s not something you can help with.”

Drift looked at him disbelievingly but relented. “Alright, Ratchet. I’ll be back later if you want to talk then.”

“Thank you.”  _ I won’t.  _ Not with Drift. Sometimes Ratchet wondered if there was someone he could actually talk to, if it would make a difference where nothing else had… but that someone was not Drift.

Not Orion either. His friend, the novice he’d tutored might have been an option, but that novice had grown into a powerful Prime, and Ratchet just couldn’t spill all of his thoughts and doubts — his heresy — to the one god who could speak back.

He could feel Drift lingering a moment longer, but then thankfully, mercifully, he left. Ratchet sagged with relief. Not even midday and already he was exhausted. Interacting with people had become so tiring, thanks to the need to constantly watch everything he said and did. Mechanimals were so much easier. They didn’t look at him and see everything he’d been, everything he’d lost. They just saw him for what he was and didn’t judge.

They did demand though. His patient was making sad optics at him, trying to convey with a single look that he was the most pitiful creature in existence and that surely he would starve to death because there was no one to take care of him in his helpless state.

With a huff, Ratchet went ahead and fed him. It was past time anyway; the tour had put him behind schedule. 

While he was eating, Ratchet took advantage of the creature’s distraction to check the bandages and other dressings, changing those which were soiled, dirty, or twisted. He petted the hound for being so good, wishing he could spare him the time and hassle of mundane healing.

One task led to another from there and Ratchet lost himself if not happily at least with a measure of relaxation in his work. Pharma didn’t turn up to berate him for his presumption with the princess, which he couldn’t imagine the mech putting off if he were going to do it, so that was one worry off his plate. It also meant he could send one of the junior initiates off to fetch him a few things without having to wonder if the mech would challenge his authority. The priests at the outpost might not have any respect for him, but this was a military installation, and in the military, there was this lovely little thing called  _ rank. _

“Hi. Am I interrupting?”

Who—? Ratchet turned at the unexpected voice, then immediately set down what he was working on to kneel. The prince wasn’t the same as the Prime-Ascendant, but better safe than sorry. “Not at all, your highness.”

Silver painted fingertips entered his vision, then a klik later the prince giggled slightly. “Sorry. If you were Praxan you’d be waiting for me to offer my hand. You can stand up though. I just came to see this guy,” he moved away, toward the hound on the bed, “again.”

Oh. “Of course,” Ratchet said as he got to his feet, doing his best to bury his surprise. “He’ll be glad to have a visitor.”

“I bet he’s beautiful when he’s not all bandaged up.” Silverstreak offered his hand to the hound to sniff, scritching his audial flaps when the creature thumped his tail against the bed. He’d changed crowns, Ratchet noticed, since the tour. He was wearing a smaller but no less intricate filigree crown with blue gems now. “I’ve never really had a pet,” he said wistfully.

“He’s not a pet,” Ratchet said before he could stop himself. Even if he was, as the prince had suggested, probably pretty enough to be a pet turbohound, with burnished brass plating and jewel tone accents. “He’s a working mechanimal, trained extensively to work together with the infantry in the field.” 

Silverstreak didn’t reprimand him; instead, he smiled. “I think Kizzy and Tizzy might argue that a dog can be both,” he said with amusement before turning back to the injured one. “But I’m guessing this one doesn’t have a specific person to take care of him. Yet, anyway. Maybe he’ll be your dog.”

“Not likely. He’s got a ways to go, but he’ll make a full recovery.” At which point the sergeant of his unit would assess him to determine if he was fit for combat and either put him back on the roster or decommission him. Wherever he went from there, it wouldn’t be back into Ratchet’s care. “And Drift spoils those two,” he muttered.

“My sister has a cat,” the prince announced wistfully, petting carefully around the bandages, getting many wiggles of doggie ecstasy in the process. “She definitely spoils her, but they make it work.”

His sister; in other words, Arcee’s first intended, the princess Prowl. Why was Silverstreak telling Ratchet any of this? “It is, as you say, easier to make work when a mechanimal has a single specific caregiver.”

Silverstreak nodded and fell silent to concentrate on the happy turbohound. Ratchet let him, not really knowing what to say anyway. He shouldn’t have even said what he had, correcting a prince of the realm. But he wasn’t just a prince, he was practically a newling, and Ratchet had spent a lot of his life looking after and guiding those who were new to theirs. Apparently old habits died hard.

“Such a pretty turbohound,” the prince sighed. “I like Prowl’s cat too. Prowl uses her as a spy. She thinks I don’t know that, but everyone knows a familiar can spy for its mage. Well, probably not everyone.”

“Not everyone, no.” Ratchet knew it, but he hadn’t known the Praxan princess had a familiar. He really should just stop talking… “Familiars aren’t pets either, you know.”

“Especially not Sundance,” Silverstreak readily agreed. “She puffs up and gets all offended whenever someone calls her that.”

“Really?” 

The prince giggled. “She does! It’s so funny.”

“I can imagine.” Ratchet had seen plenty an indignant cat in his time, and it was quite the sight. It wasn’t something he’d ever heard of a cat doing in response to a specific word like that though. “Does she do it with any other words?”

“I guess? I’ve never really paid a lot of attention. Lady Sundance of Greenfields is… special. Prowl says she’s special, anyway.”

Wow. What a mouthful. Ratchet was used to dealing with mechanimals that had short, simple names that were easy to remember, but it probably suited the cat perfectly. “Special?” He still felt a bit awkward talking to the prince like this, but the conversation seemed to be helping him somehow. “How so?”

Silverstreak stayed silent for a long klik, thinking. “Sometimes, if you catch her in the right mood,” he said softly, “Prowl will say Sundance is a spirit and not an animal at all. Not often, because she gets enough gossip and such from the Court just for what happened and doesn’t want to add making weird claims like that to it, but sometimes… She’ll call her a powerful little spirit. Special.”

A spirit. Such a claim would be heresy for a follower of Primus. “Is that not in keeping with the god she follows?” Ratchet asked, suspecting the answer was “no” based on what Silverstreak had already said. If she wasn’t making the claim often or publicly for fear of repercussions, it couldn’t be a popularly held belief in Praxus.

Silverstreak hesitated again, maybe realizing he was saying too much to someone with a supposedly very strict definition of gods and spirits and such and their place. “It’s not about gods, really,” he finally said. “Or, not our gods. It’s about what happened with Jazz, which Arcee knows more about than I do.”

“Jazz?” That must be, “Her resonant mate?” 

“Yes. Warrior Jazz of Rainclouds Island, Polyhex,” Silverstreak intoned formally, before continuing less stiffly. “She’s really nice, though definitely weird.”

Weird wasn’t a big enough word in Ratchet’s mind for someone who didn’t worship the Primordial Duo, or at least the Guiding Hand. Primus in one form or another. “Not our gods”, Silverstreak had said. How could a Praxan princess be resonant with such a heathen? Spark resonance was a gift from Primus! A sign of His blessing on the couple who shared it!

Silverstreak had stopped talking while Ratchet ruminated, focusing on petting the dog. After a klik, he started talking again, this time much more quietly and to the dog. Ratchet busied himself at the workbench and tried not to listen, but the words he couldn’t help but hear pulled on his spark. The young prince was talking about the skirmishes he’d seen so far on this military tour, about killing and dying. 

He asked the dog how he was so brave.

_ Because the dumb animal doesn’t know any better. _ Ratchet kept the harsh words to himself . They were very much not what the prince was looking for.

He wished he could tell him it would be alright. That he would find his courage when it counted and that Primus would always be with him. It was what any good cleric or priest would say to comfort someone in the prince’s position. Too bad Ratchet wasn’t a good cleric anymore, and he wasn’t willing to spout platitudes without being able to put his spark behind them. They were facing a war against an enemy that consorted with demons. That was anything but alright. It would get worse before it got better, and there were no guarantees on the battlefield. Not even from Primus.

Fortunately, the dog seemed to be providing what Ratchet could not. He nuzzled Silverstreak’s shoulder, whined, grunted, and licked his face at all the right points in the one-sided conversation to cheer him up a little. 

“You’re a good dog,” the prince finally said, hugging the creature, who panted happily. Silverstreak stepped back. “Thank you,” he said to Ratchet, “for letting me visit.”

“You’re welcome any time, your highness.” 

Silverstreak nodded absently, then left as quietly as he’d come, and Ratchet saw the guards who had been just outside the entire time fall in around him.

That… hadn’t been anywhere near as bad as Ratchet had feared. As he got back to work he found himself thinking, somewhat wonderingly, that he wouldn’t mind if the prince decided to come back. 

“I’m not  _ lonely,”  _ he grumbled, protesting Drift’s accusation to the empty room. 

The turbohound barked, knocking his tail against the dog berth he was resting on.

“Exactly — I have you.” And no, imagining what the dog was saying wasn’t proof of anything. “Hmph. Bet you’d like to have him come visit again too.”

The dog just wagged his tail more.

“That’s what I thought.”

He wasn’t sorry, however, when the rest of the cycle passed without any additional guests. 

Unlike dawn prayers, evening prayers weren’t a public affair, or at a specific time. Ratchet stood at his window looking out at the already darkening sky when he finally set aside his work. He should be giving thanks for another cycle, but there was too much else in his head.

He decided he could do his prayers by taking a walk. He wouldn’t leave the garrison, but he could go up on the walls and look out at the night.

He had to climb several flights of stairs to get to the top and look out. The areas around the garrison and the roads had been cleared of wild crystals and there were dozens of lanterns set out to light up the kill zone. Bullseye lanterns directed their light down from the walls, while a network of torches burned on the ground itself. They would burn all night unless something put them out. Behind them, opposite the road, the mountain rose sharply into the sky, covered with snow that shone in the light of the moon even this late in the season, while beyond the torches the crystals tangled into a forest that drank in the light. The forest looked darker, more menacing than even the voids between stars. Darkness was the enemy. 

By contrast, the top of the wall itself had no light, to make it easier for the night watch soldiers to see down into the kill zone. Archers patrolled the wide walls, thick stone on the outside and earth inside, to better prevent tunneling. Only the gate could be broken through, and it had defenses of its own. 

All of this was a relic of wars past, Ratchet knew. Darkwatch Pass had been a strategic point for longer than their records went back. Even when all of the five nations had been united, this and the other mountain passes providing access to Iacon had been fortified, though Ratchet didn’t know if the garrisons had been manned then. 

In the distance, from that most menacing darkness, a pack of turbowolves howled. Another animal bayed hauntingly, and a third from another direction screamed like a murdered femme.

“They do that every night,” one soldier said, optics staying on the kill zone. “Never see the wolves though.”

“Ain’t wolves at all,” his partner growled, made jittery by the night. “Demons.”

Either or, Ratchet was glad they were down there and he was up here. The beasts were ferocious, and he’d already had to patch up several significant bite and scratch injuries. 

He had other reasons to want to stay far away from the turbowolves, too, but he was trying to think less about… all that, not more. 

The breeze picked up and Ratchet shivered. He started to turn his attention from the flickering lights of the kill zone to the stars, the moon. He was supposed to be saying his evening prayers—

The wind’s direction changed, and several torches down in the kill zone went out. A second breeze made the air swirl around, and darkness started overtaking the ground. A shout of alarm went up all along the wall. Howls from the forest that definitely  _ weren’t _ wolves answered them.

_ Frag.  _

All thoughts of prayers and past failings out of his head, Ratchet turned and ran back down the stairs, taking several two at a time. He needed to be where people could find him, where he could make quick combat repairs as needed until all enemies were driven off. Which they would be; they had to be. 

Behind him, he heard the wall sergeants yelling for archers to draw and fire, others yelled for guards on the other walls to hold their positions. Ahead of him, lights were coming on in the buildings, lanterns being lit, as the garrison roused. The sound of loosed bowstrings filled the night, and Ratchet knew the enemy had shown themselves. The sergeants called for mages.

Streaks of fire shot across the sky. Most of the enemy’s fire-arrows landed where they would harmlessly burn out on the ground, or in walls, but one or two caught near fuel depots, or on oil puddles. Shouts when up for fire brigades to put out the blazes.

Ratchet recognized the princess, followed quickly by Drift and Hot Rod, racing up the stairs past him. Silverstreak wasn’t with them, but he saw him up on one of the other walls, bow in hand, when he stepped out into the compound. 

“Ratchet!” One of the initiates called, waving him over. “Come quick, the stable’s on fire and not all the animals got out!”

Ratchet didn’t protest being ordered about by a youngster; he ran for the stable. The heat was intense and the blaze covered everything. He heard zap ponies screaming from inside. 

_ Primus guide— _ He didn’t get any further in the prayer before barrelling through what was left of the side entrance. 

Inside, he could barely see through the smoke. Tongues of flame provided flickers of illumination that bubbled his paint if he got too close, and the soot stung in the scratches he’d picked up on his way in. Fortunately, he didn’t need to see to know where to go — the sound of the zap ponies was a beacon, and he picked his way across the debris-strewn inferno to reach them, leaning on his memory of the layout.

_ Move fast, move fast, move fast.  _ There were flames in the rafters, and it would only be a matter of time before the roof came down. They couldn’t still be inside when that happened.

One of the ponies screamed in panic, a strut-chillingly mech-like sound. He saw them huddled together in the center of the stable. The doors to their stalls must have been burned or kicked open. At least they were together. Ratchet could see their optics, almost white with panic as they all tried to back away from the closing flames. 

“—!”

Someone outside was yelling but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Hopefully it wasn’t an indication things out there were worse than they were in here because staying wasn’t an option. Leading the ponies out wasn’t really either though; they were wild with fear, so much so that they reared and shied when Ratchet approached. He caught a hoof to his shoulder as he ducked out of range and swore, the profanity lost to the crackling of the fire. How was he going to get them out?

A burning timber fell beside him right where he’d been standing. Ratchet jumped and the ponies shied again, and the movement gave him a flash of inspiration. Grabbing a not-actively-flaming piece of the fallen brand, he started using it to try to drive the ponies to the main door.

Most of the ponies shied away, shuffling toward the door before stopping and rearing. Then, with an angry snort, the largest lowered his head and charged.

_ Yes! _

The impact shook the already shaky structure. The weakened door didn’t stand a chance, and the rest of the ponies bolted as one mass for the exit. Ratchet said a prayer and tossed aside the stick slowly scorching his hand before taking off running himself. Everything was going to come down any nanoklik—

Ratchet didn’t even hear the crash. Scorching air pushed him aside and he went tumbling away, scratching for purchase on the stone of the courtyard. 

He still couldn’t hear anything when the world righted and cool night air rushed over his plating, burning cold where sensors were still trying to process the heat. His intake and optics were choked with smoke.

“—chet?” The sound of what was maybe his name finally penetrated about the same time as a hand appeared on his un-dented shoulder. Something — a mesh cloth — wiped at his face, revealing the initiate who’d alerted him to the situation in the stable. 

He would have responded despite the ringing in his audios, but just then shouts of “Breach!” and “Protect the princess!” carried across the compound.

“Frag,” he said, or thought he said, and struggled to his feet. His optics were still streaked with soot, but he could see enough to pick out the raiders pulling themselves over the wall. How had they gotten a ladder up? Some of the soldiers were still shooting down, picking off rebels while they climbed, but most were fighting through to where the princess and her guards were holding off one particularly large mech wielding a great axe that should have toppled him from sheer weight.

_ Demonic strength.  _

As Ratchet watched, the struggle intensified. The rebel knocked two guards clear off the wall, swinging his weapon with terrifying force. With them out of the way he charged forward, roaring loud enough to be heard over the rest of the chaos. Several mechs cowered back, but Arcee met him blade for blade, unflinching. 

“Oh, Primus, she’s not going to—”

The initiate didn’t get to finish his sentence. No sooner had the mech driven the princess to her knees than Drift leaped into action, pushing him back before he could fully overpower her. She shouted something, and her voice rang like a bell; Ratchet felt like he should be able to understand the words, but they eluded him.  _ Something _ answered her and sank into the rebel’s form. He started to swing down on her but a flare of blinding mage-light made him flinch, and Drift finished moving between him and the princess.

The demon-possessed — he had to be! — mech swung that massive axe and Drift only barely managed to tumble out of the way. A shrill whistle rang out across the battlefield and rang in Ratchet’s still-ringing audios. Fearless as only a pair of dumb turbohounds could be, both Kizzy and Tizzy pounced on the brute, tearing into his legs with their teeth. He roared, and Ratchet wished he could hear any pain in the sound, but it was pure anger. 

Arcee recovered, pushing herself back to her feet as a pair of missiles made of bright flame flew from Hot Rod’s fingertips to make the big rebel stagger. She raised her sword to finish him—

Another rebel, one who must have (somehow!) free-climbed the wall, pulled himself over the battlements with a snarl right beside her. He tackled the princess and they both went flying out of the fray and to the courtyard below, where they both landed hard. Arcee tumbled past Ratchet like a doll made of rags.

“Your highness!”

The initiate rushed to her side. Ratchet let him help her; he couldn’t heal her, but he could defend her, and he’d prefer to do it with a weapon than bare hands.

He’d only just closed his fingers around a fist-sized rock when the rebel was back on his feet and coming at them. The look on his face— Ratchet didn’t have the words. It was twisted, grotesque. Evil. Throwing the rock wasn’t so much a calculated maneuver as pure instinct. It bounced off of the monster-mech’s armor with all the effectiveness of a grain of sand. He didn’t flinch, or even notice Ratchet’s efforts, and advanced on the princess. 

An arrow appeared in the mech’s chest, to much the same lack of effect. Ratchet saw the gleam of silver as Silverstreak — up on the far wall and away from the danger — drew and nocked another arrow. 

It wasn’t going to be fast enough, Ratchet could already see that.

“No!” the initiate yelled, throwing himself between the Prime-Ascendant and the demon.

His scream as it picked him up and ripped his arm from his frame was agonizing. It lasted until the demon threw him down again, dashing his helm against the ground with a sickening  _ crack! _

Another arrow sprouted, this time in the demon’s knee. That finally staggered it. More desperate than heartened, Ratchet snatched at another bit of debris and came up with a charred piece of the stable, long and jagged and biting into his hand.

“Hey!” he shouted hoarsely, hoping against hope that the monster would turn on him and leave the Prime-Ascendant where she lay, barely conscious at best. Praying that their soldiers would reach them quickly and finish the thing off after it inevitably destroyed him, Ratchet ran headlong at death and swung his improvised club with all his might.

He hit the demon solidly, saw armor dent slightly — not even enough to damage a newling, he thought — before he was backhanded. Barely taller than him, the rebel still hit with the force of a battering ram, and Ratchet was forced back, audios ringing once again, though miraculously he didn’t go flying. 

There was a massive axe on the mech’s back, apparently forgotten after the climb.  _ Why isn’t he drawing it?  _ Not that Ratchet wanted him to, and the honest truth was he hardly needed it. Those hands were perfectly deadly on their own, and when it rounded on Ratchet to finish him off, Ratchet threw up his improvised weapon as an equally improvised shield.

_ Crack-sst! _ This time Rachet was knocked to the floor as the debris splintered under the force of the blow. Hellish red optics narrowed and the demon hissed in anticipation of the kill. 

A third silver arrow appeared with a  _ thwack, _ this time in the demon’s optic, piercing the processor behind it. Its limbs came to a shuddering halt as the light went out of the remaining optic. For a nanoklik Ratchet thought it was going to fall on him, but then it tipped backward, pulled over by the weight of the equipment on its back. 

_ Get up.  _ He should get up, make sure there weren’t more coming, check on the Prime-Ascendant… He couldn’t even get his hands under him successfully. The world was too sooty and wobbly and painful to orient properly, and he slumped into the ground with a groan.

“Ratchet! Are you alive? OhthankPrimus,” someone nearby said. At least, Ratchet assumed it was someone. All he could see was more red and orange flame. “Is the princess—?”

“Alive.” Drift’s voice was mostly calm, but it carried a note of relief that Ratchet’s spark echoed as the world went dark. She was alive… 

.

.

.


	4. Part Three

.

.

.

Ratchet woke to the cool touch of Primus’ magic, washing through him and leaving behind whole, unscorched plating, and an irate femme’s voice demanding, “…nd you to let me out of this bed, right now.”

“Prime-Ascendant…”

“Exactly. Now go about your other patients. I am perfectly capable of walking.”

_ What?  _ Ratchet blinked on his optics and took a look at his surroundings. He was lying on one of the beds just outside his own little corner of the medical wing. The battle must be over then, but how much had their victory cost them?

“Welcome back,” the cleric who’d healed Ratchet enough for him to wake said. “You’re needed in the veterinary wing.”

“Arcee…” the conversation over by the Prime-Ascendant continued with a worried Silverstreak. 

“I’m fine, love. Their magics are needed elsewhere, and I need to see the dead rebels.”

The dead rebels. The dead demon-possessed rebels. The details of the assault began filtering back, and Ratchet remembered the fire in the stable. “How bad off are the ponies?” he asked. 

“We’re still rounding them up, but your first patients are already waiting for you.” The cleric then left Ratchet without another word, moving onto his own next patient, and Ratchet pushed himself sitting to look around — this time without falling back down.

For all the chaos there had been, there weren’t too many casualties. Hot Rod was slumped over against the princess’s berth where she and Silverstreak continued their polite, concerned bickering, and he wasn’t the only mage laying in an exhausted heap. None of the garrison’s wizards or magi were unscathed, and all were unconscious. Soldiers occupied every other available berth, and others walked by with arms or legs or helms bandaged. 

Plenty of them could have benefitted from magical healing, but such spells were limited. Ratchet only merited one because he could heal without the use of magic, and he was the only medic at the garrison with veterinary experience. 

Getting to his feet slowly, Ratchet made sure he was up to the task, then set about getting on with it. 

“Oh! You’re awake.” 

Drift’s voice greeted him as he entered the vet area. He was sitting beside Kizzy and Tizzy, both of whom looked worse for wear even more than their handler did. “Who should I start with?”

“Kizzy. Thank you.” Drift gave him a wan smile. “I’m glad you’re awake. You had us worried.”

“Based on what I remember before losing consciousness, I probably would have worried myself.” There was no point in dwelling on it now though, and Ratchet focused on going over Kizzy’s plating, cataloging the damage. He cleaned as he went, wiping soot, dirt and dried energon away from numerous cuts and scrapes. “Surface burns,” he said for Drift’s benefit. “No damage beneath the armor.”

“Thank Primus,” Drift whispered. He put his hand on Kizzy’s head to comfort him and tell him to hold still while Ratchet worked. Kizzy just whined and gave Ratchet the most pathetic look of utter doggie despair in existence.

“I know it’s uncomfortable,” Ratchet said even though the poor thing couldn’t understand him. “But it’s to make you better.” Fortunately for Kizzy, most of what he needed to do felt better right away: cleaning the painful dirt out of his injuries and covering them in salve and mesh patches, applying a cooling gel to the burned areas, and unjamming the places where his plating had compacted together and gotten stuck.

There was one injury he wasn’t going to be able to take care of so easily though. “Can you hold him? This cut has bled through two patches now, and I need to pry it open to find the torn line.”

Drift nodded. “Shh,” he soothed, moving to put his weight against the hound, holding down his legs and head. “You’re a good dog.” 

A good dog who still squirmed, yelped, and then whined when the Big Bad Mech started Hurting Him For No Reason, but Ratchet didn’t let it deter him. There was no way around the procedure hurting, so the best thing was to get it over with as quickly as possible. 

In under a klik, Ratchet found the bleeder, determined it was small enough to fix without additional surgery, and patched it. “No strenuous activity for a couple of cycles,” he warned as he smoothed the disfigured armor back into place, “until the patch integrates enough to handle higher pressure in that line.”

“Just bedrest,” Drift agreed, tapping Kizzy on the nose. “Even if we have to tie you to a pony like a saddlebag,” he told the creature fondly.

Tizzy was almost as bad off, Ratchet discovered when he moved on to him. He had no bleeding, but a lot of his armor was dented badly.

“What happened to you?” Ratchet asked after popping the fifth one. It barely looked like… well, like he’d made a dent in it. “I may need to remove this piece and reshape it completely.”

“The possessed warrior tossed him off the battlements,” Drift answered. “But Tizzy’s tough. And it’s alright if you can’t get him one-hundred percent right now. I know you’re busy.”

“I’ll take it off now and come back to it then, if you don’t mind.” That way the misshapen plating wouldn’t be compressing anything in the meantime. “I should see if they’ve rounded up all of the ponies outside and find out what damage they took from those demons.”

“Yeah.” 

Tizzy sighed in relief when the armor plate came off, so Ratchet guessed it had indeed been pushing on something. He did another check for damage now that it was out of the way and was glad to find nothing serious. He set the armor aside and told the dog to, “Stay,” then cleaned up and went looking for the ponies. 

They were easy to find, gathered together in a makeshift corral in the courtyard. Ratchet stalked past the pile of dead Kaonex lying nearby, trying to take a headcount of the animals as he did so.

“Are we still missing some?” he asked the mech currently watching them. 

“They’ve got two helping to clear the rubble,” the mech replied, “but otherwise this is everyone.”

“Great.” And they were all much calmer than when he’d last seen them, which was a relief. “Do we have a small pen yet so I can check them out one at a time?”

The mech shook his head. “We’re still slapping repairs on some of the more essential buildings.”

“Understood.” Inconvenient, but understood. There was no way Ratchet was going in with all of them though, and since he didn’t want to wait, he started hunting down what he needed to put a pen together himself. The ponies were unnerved by the lingering scent of the fire, but most were battle-trained mounts or army pack animals, so they weren’t acting out. A simple pen made of rope would do.

He had just hammered the stakes into the ground and was stringing the rope between them to finish up the pen when a commotion at the entrance to the temple drew his attention. Arcee came stomping out, still streaked with smoke, trailing priests and attendants like so much flotsam in her wake. 

“No. This cannot wait. If I wait you will dispose of them and then I will never… out of my way!” Arcee physically pushed an objector out of the way and stomped over to the pile of Kaonex bodies.

_ What in Primus’ name…?  _ Everyone in the courtyard paused what they were doing to watch, Ratchet included. It wasn’t his place, and she clearly wouldn’t be deterred, but he still had to fight back the urge to stop her. She shouldn’t be near those! They were unclean, unholy!

It made no difference to the Prime-Ascendant. She dug into the pile without hesitation; behind her, Silverstreak caught and held one of the clerics who did step forward to stop her, and Hot Rod held out a glowing hand in threat at another, proving he wasn’t totally spent of his magic. He probably only had cantrips left, Ratchet thought, watching even that effort make him sway on his feet, but that would be enough against the equally exhausted clerics. 

The tableau was already grisly, and only got more so as Arcee spread out the bodies until she found the bodies of the two, no three, demon-possessed rebels. She looked them over, examining their dead optics, opening their mouths to look inside, and manipulating the mechanisms in their hands. Ratchet wasn’t squeamish about death, but it was still a bit disturbing to watch. What in Primus’ name was she looking for?

At last Arcee looked up at Silverstreak with a huff. “They don’t have claws or fangs.” 

“Did you really expect they would?” he asked innocently. “We’re a long way from the sea.”

“Of course we are. Still, the way they fought, I could have sworn…” 

“Barbarians don’t use great axes,” the prince said with confidence. “In every report I’ve read, they use swords they bought or stole from  _ us, _ or their own harpoons, spears, and knives.”

“Or their own claws. Not to mention, the great axe is all but exclusively a Kaonex gladiator weapon.” Arcee looked around at the horrified garrison. “They aren’t  _ demons,” _ she snarled. “Start building pyres. We will be burning these mechs with honor, and not in a pile like refuse!” 

What.  _ What?  _ Ratchet blinked, trying to process what he’d just heard. Several others were protesting, but he tuned them out in favor of the cacophony of his conflicting thoughts. Of course they were demons! He’d seen it with his own optics, fought one of them with his own hands! The thing that had come at them, that had brutally dismembered the poor, brave initiate had been burning with blind rage. There had been no intelligence in those cursed red optics — only lust for blood. That  _ was  _ a demon, housed in a mortal shell!

And it was the Prime-Ascendant, a vessel for Primus’ light and wisdom in a mortal shell, saying it wasn’t.

“Prime-Ascendant,” Pharma stepped forward, wings flicking with agitation, only halting when Hot Rod’s barely focused gaze turned on him. Cocksure as ever, even in the aftermath of the attack, the threat of a cantrip to the face didn’t stop him from protesting. “Surely they could be nothing else!”

“Are you suggesting,” Arcee turned on him, glaring, “that I fought these mechs and  _ missed _ that they were demons? I have seen this rage before,” she spoke over the chief healer’s protests that no, no that wasn’t what he meant at all, “fought this rage before, and it is not the Destroyer’s work.”

“B-but, then,” someone else stammered, helpfully asking the question Ratchet suspected they were all thinking, “what is it?”

Arcee let out a frustrated sigh and looked down at the three rebels. “I don’t know. The first time I saw such a thing it was Polyhexian magic, but how it came to be here…”

How indeed? They were, as Silverstreak pointed out, a long way from the sea. Ratchet wasn’t sure heathen magic was any better than demon magic — how could there even be a difference? — when it came to it, but he still didn’t join in the arguing. The cracks in his faith didn’t run so deep that he no longer believed the Prime-Ascendant would know the work of the Destroyer if she saw it. 

Nonetheless, he felt anxious when Arcee’s optics landed on him next. “You. Ratchet.” Had his lack of protest offended her? Ratchet could feel Pharma’s optics burning into his plating as she pointed to a junior cleric and gestured him over to where Ratchet was standing and told him to, “Take over for him. You,” she addressed Ratchet again, “come with me.”

_ He doesn’t know how to take care of the ponies, _ Ratchet wanted to say, to stall, but that was an indisputable command. Maybe the other cleric would manage to finish the pen by the time he was able to return to them. Under the shocked and somewhat suspicious gazes of everyone present, Ratchet walked across the courtyard, studiously avoiding Pharma’s gaze, and fell in behind Arcee.

As soon as they reached the largest room in the rectory — Pharma’s, which had been given over to the royals when they’d arrived — and the door closed behind them, Hot Rod piped up with, “Do you really think—?”

“You saw them,” Arcee interrupted as Silverstreak dismissed his guards. “Have you ever seen anyone else shrug off your spells like that?”

“No, but a demon wouldn’t care about the frame it possessed.”

Silently, Ratchet agreed with that, but—

“I could only smite one of them.” Arcee beckoned for Silverstreak to join her on the simple couch, which he did while Hot Rod collapsed into the room’s single chair. “And none of them radiated evil as a servant of the Destroyer should, indicating that one had committed only mortal sins.” She turned her gaze on Ratchet. “The others said you fought one of them. What did you see?”

“What I did barely counts as fighting,” Ratchet protested, but her stern look had him recounting what he remembered anyway. “When it came over the wall it tackled you down to where I was standing. The fall barely staggered it. I hardly had time to pick up and throw a single rock before it was on us, and the thing didn’t even react to it or the stick I hit it with after— after it killed one of the initiates.”

Silverstreak flinched, whether from the words or his own memory of the event, Ratchet wasn’t sure, and Arcee’s optics softened. “Primus bless his spark.”

Ratchet bowed his head in a moment of silence before continuing. “It didn’t react to any of the arrows that hit it, even though they struck places that should have hurt it. It was like it just didn’t feel pain.”

“It does sound like Jazz,” Hot Rod conceded with a huff.

“But Jazz didn’t kill anyone!” Silverstreak huddled in on himself and Arcee wrapped her arms around him.

“She could,” Arcee said with a sigh that told Ratchet she knew how not-comforting her words were. “Physically and mentally… Jazz is perfectly capable of killing like that.”

“Jazz would never forget her weapon, though,” Drift said, otherwise silent as he let himself into the room sans his turbohound shadows. “The first of these, the one that climbed the wall so the ladder could be placed, only had his axe because it was tethered to his hand. The second didn’t become possessed until he was already up the ladder and had his weapon out. The third forgot his existed.”

“The one I fought,” that third one, “definitely had a weapon, but it never left its holster. I remember being glad of that.”

“You won’t be if you ever fight a true Polyhexian warrior,” Arcee warned, and both of her guards nodded or grunted in agreement. “They are as dangerous armed only with their claws as with steel blade.” 

When would he ever find himself in a situation like that? And, “What do Polyhexian warriors have to do with the demons we just faced?” Ratchet blurted out.  _ Or me being here right now?  _ “If you’ll forgive my asking,” he tacked on quickly.

Arcee did not seem to be offended. “That’s how Polyhexian warriors fight: they call upon the spirits of animals to grant them strength and drive and immunity to pain. In exchange, it overlays their thoughts with the instincts of the creature they’ve called.”

“Reading the reports of the survivors of Polyhexian raids, I’d hazard that most, if not all, of them do it in some form or another,” Silverstreak said. “The refrain is surprisingly consistent. ‘They fought like animals’, ‘No one should be able to hit like that’, ‘my arrows didn’t do anything’, etcetera.”

“Didn’t Ricochet say something like that once?” Drift asked.

“That she was impressed Jazz could focus so well through the water cat’s desires, yes she did.” Arcee narrowed her optics in thought. “These mechs have a Polyhexian’s magic, but not their training in how to use it.”

“That’s why you wanted to examine the bodies, wasn’t it?” Ratchet said, putting two and two together. Fangs and claws, she’d been looking for… “Do Polyhexians have specific frame characteristics like Praxans?” Not that every Praxan had doorwings or a chevron, much less both, but certain traits were good regional indicators… 

“They do.”

“They  _ really _ do,” Hot Rod said at the same time. “What?” he asked when they all looked at him. “All the ones in Hightower looked practically identical. It was kind of eerie.”

“I think we’ve established that these mechs aren’t Polyhexian mercenaries,” Silverstreak said. He still looked haunted. “But how did their magic get all the way out here? They stay near their boats. The City of Praxus is the farthest inland there’s ever been a report of a Polyhexian coming, and that was Jazz at her own wedding.”

“Jazz, who has unfortunately taken the only mainland expert on Polyhex and its magic  _ with her to Polyhex.” _ Arcee sighed. Silverstreak giggled. Ratchet wondered what any of this had to do with him. “I think this cuts our tour short. We need to get back to the First City, as soon as we can travel.”

Hot Rod groaned. 

“Tizzy and Kizzy need a couple of cycles before they can walk anywhere,” Drift said quietly.

“And you’re still injured,” Silverstreak poked Arcee. “You’re moving stiffly.”

_ That  _ Ratchet could actually address. Sort of. “Do you need additional healing? I can get one of the others.”

“I’m fine,” Arcee said sharply. “Save your magic for someone else.”

“I don’t—”  _ have any  _ “—mean to impose,” Ratchet caught himself. 

Arcee waved him off. “Go ahead and tell the others I’ve decided to head to my berth and rest. Finish taking care of the zap ponies.” She stood and helped Silverstreak to his feet as well, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “Oh.” She turned back to Ratchet, and he automatically straightened his posture. “I meant what I said: we will be burning those rebels on proper pyres, outside our walls, where the rebels can see us treat their frames with honor. This is enough of a mess without desecrating their dead. See to it.”

“Ahh… on your authority?” Ratchet sure didn’t have the authority on his own, and even after her public announcement earlier, there would be pushback.

“Yes, of course,” she confirmed, more attention on letting Silverstreak pull her into the other room. 

“I’ll back you up on it,” Drift said, nudging Ratchet to the door. “Once Hot Rod falls asleep on the couch, he’ll be dead to the world,” he continued quietly, “but you and I aren’t going to want to stick around.”

Right. “Let’s give the royal couple their privacy then.” They more than deserved it after an ordeal like this. “I hate to say this, but if you’re going to cut the tour short and race back to the First City, it would be better to wait three cycles, not two. A delay upfront is better than a setback on the road if Kizzy and Tizzy aren’t ready to handle the push.”

“I’ll tell her. Ready?” 

“Not really,” Ratchet said, surprising himself with his own honesty. Maybe he needed to take a moment too, but there was nothing for it. Too much needed to be done. “They’re going to argue about this. Loudly.”

“And at one point you would have had no problem shouting right back,” Drift said with a hint of fond remembrance. “You don’t need to be timid. If they aren’t demons, then our reason for siding with the Kaonex senate in this feud is invalid, but pulling out of the conflict will be very difficult if the rebels think we won’t afford them basic respect. She’s counting on you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ratchet promised without hesitation, “but the mech I was had a lot more clout than I do now. You need to be aware of that if I’m going to not let you — let her — down.”

“Which is why I’m going to be right here,” Drift said gently. “I heard her commands, and if they doubt our word, I can definitely threaten to go disturb her.”

Ratchet chuckled. He could imagine Drift doing just that. “Thank you.”

Drift smiled, flashing one of his fangs — something Ratchet had never had reason to notice before. “Ready now?”

“As I’m going to be.” Ratchet gestured Drift to precede him. “Time to make sure these ‘not-demons’ get laid to rest.”

Drift nodded, and pushed open the rectory door and stepped out into the sunlight. 

Almost immediately they were pounced on by Pharma. “What did you say, heretic?”

Ratchet sighed at the familiar insult. This was going to go well. “By the order of the Prime-Ascendant, the bodies of the enemy are to be burned with honor outside the garrison walls.”

There wasn’t much of a crowd gathered, but Ratchet swore he could hear a collective gasp. 

“She can’t be serious,” someone whispered. Glancing to the side, Ratchet was fairly certain it was one of the soldiers. He could understand the reluctance: burning the bodies with honor in the yard was one thing, even if they had been possessed, but to do so  _ outside the walls _ would be exposing the mechs keeping watch over the pyres to potential attack. 

“She is serious,” Ratchet said, answering the comment while still talking to Pharma. “She wants the rebels see that we will treat them with respect.”

There was a murmur. Ratchet saw in Pharma’s optics as they darted over his shoulder to Drift that he really did want to object, but miraculously he didn’t. “We will begin gathering material for the pyres then,” he gritted out before spinning on his heel. Ratchet couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t agreed to actually burn the bodies on those pyres or to do so outside the walls of the garrison. Maybe he hoped to delay long enough to speak to Princess Arcee when she emerged and convince her this was foolish.

“How long are you willing to stick around and help?” Ratchet asked Drift.

Drift looked back toward the temple — toward the veterinary area — a little longingly, then steeled himself. “As long as I’m needed.”

That turned out to be pretty much all the way up to the bodies going on the fires. Pharma did everything he could to delay and “misunderstand” the incredibly simple orders, blatantly trying to buy time to talk to someone besides them. If he hadn’t been blaming Ratchet for all of the “confusion” surrounding the Prime-Ascendant’s wishes, Ratchet might have had some sympathy for him for once. He wasn’t comfortable with what they were doing either! He didn’t let it stop him from moving the last three bodies — those that had been possessed — out to the pyres when no one else would touch them, however. Arcee had said all of them, not all-of-them-except-the-three-demons.

He was forced to be the priest to stand out there and say the prayers over the bodies as they burned too. It twisted him up inside because of how much of a lie it was — he wasn’t a true cleric any longer. He was still a member of the church, though, and he supposed that if the true intent was to show the rebels waiting outside the walls that they were treating their dead with respect, then that was all that mattered. He didn’t need spells to recite the prayers.

It was a long, long night. Drift returned to his dogs to rest once the fires were going, but Ratchet stayed until they had all burned down. By that point, the stars had faded in anticipation of the dawn.

At least there was one good thing about taking on the unclean task of handling the demon-possessed bodies: he would be expected to undertake a cleansing ritual before presenting himself at dawn prayers, and there wasn’t enough time to make this morning’s.

He debated if he should recharge first, but decided he should take a look at the zap ponies while everyone was busy. He’d neglected them too long already, and  _ they _ didn’t care if he was unclean. Supposedly another cleric had taken care of them, but none of the others were vets.

A glint of dawnlight off of something at the edge of the kill zone caught his attention and he looked. He met a pair of red optics over the shiny silver point of a nocked arrow. The rest of the mech was obscured in shadow.

How long had he been watching? Had he heard, or at least seen, given the distance, the prayers Ratchet had said over his comrades? Hoping he wasn’t about to get shot, Ratchet bowed in his direction. He couldn’t give a true blessing and the mech might not appreciate one anyway, but he couldn’t  _ not  _ acknowledge him.

The only response — if it was one — was for the watcher to withdraw further into the forest and out of sight.

Ratchet walked very quickly until he was back inside.

He found the ponies still in the makeshift corral, now including the two that had been absent earlier. They’d been provided with some fuel and bedding, and there’d been some effort made to clean the soot off most of them, but he could see that none of their wounds had been properly addressed. With a promise to be back quickly, Ratchet went inside to grab supplies and get to work.

Tizzy, Kizzy and the infantry dog had been fed, presumably by Drift. All three looked up and wagged their tails in greeting.

“Hi. I suppose you all think I’m here to keep you company?” One by one he patted their heads and checked their bandages. Everyone looked good, for the moment. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little while, but believe me, as soon as I’m done with the ponies I’m coming back here and collapsing.”

They still looked at him, pathetically eager for Just One More Scratch.

“Oh, alright — but just  _ one  _ more,” Ratchet said, petting them each again. They all wagged their tails and panted happily at the extra attention. “I’m sure you’ll see Drift again soon, and maybe even the prince,” he told the infantry dog. “I think he liked you.”

This time Ratchet didn’t let the ensuing whine stop him from attending to his patients outside. 

Starting with the big pony that had charged through the stable door, Ratchet led the ponies one at a time to the rope pen to finish cleaning and patching them. Under the last of the soot, this one was a deep, even blue that covered his plating, except for where it looked like his hooves and lower legs had been dipped in white paint. Someone’s war-pony. 

“You did very well,” he told it, checking if any of the gashes it had gotten from breaking through the door were likely to tear open further as he moved around. Two were severe enough he had to weld them, which it stood pretty well for considering, and the rest were alright with adhesive mesh patches once they were clean.

The next was a bright green, more delicate pony, suited for speed or racing. A courier’s mount? Usually, a mech’s alt form was faster than a pony, but sometimes exceptional specimens were excavated… The thoughts did not precisely  _ distract _ him from the burns across the poor creature’s flanks, but it was much more pleasant than contemplating how it had gotten them. 

Friendly as any puppy, it nuzzled Ratchet’s hands — possibly looking for treats — as he led it back to the main corral. 

After that was a (perhaps understandably)  _ much _ less friendly mechanimal with more significant injuries. It neighed and reared, and Ratchet had to tie it down to patch its spotted side… which did not keep the animal from snorting and stamping its hooves in threat. “It will make you feel better in the long run,” Ratchet said uselessly, careful to keep away from its mouth. He didn’t want to get bitten for his troubles.

That didn’t stop it from trying to bite him. 

The other zap ponies were variations of the same, ranging from docile to violent. The more violent ones tended to be dirtier than the docile ones. Whoever had tried to clean them had either been too afraid or impatient to do more than the bare minimum with the uncooperative ponies.

By the time he was done, dawn prayers had let out and activity in the garrison was picking up again. Ratchet was not at all surprised to notice that mechs were avoiding him more than usual. He really did need to do that cleansing, and say his private dawn prayers, and, and, and. There was so much he needed to do, but the only rest he’d gotten was while he was unconscious from being battered by a demon warrior.

Primus, he was tired.

If he were a good cleric, he’d seek out one of the others and do that ritual first, but he was not able to undertake the arduous fast, vigil, and cleansing right now. If he tried, he would end up back in the healers’ care, this time to wait out his turn to receive healing in a berth while the others focused on getting the soldiers back on their feet rather than touch and waste their magic on an unclean heretic. 

He decided to grab a ration, say his prayers quickly as he consumed it, and make good on his promise to keep the dogs company while he took a nap. Just a nap. Just enough to let him get through the ritual when he woke up.

Mechs continued to avoid him in the mess hall, and the server poured the bare minimum to be considered a full ration of fuel into a disposable cup and set it down for Ratchet to take, snatching his hand away as quickly as possible. “Gee, thanks,” Ratchet said, too tired to bother containing his sarcasm. Fortunately, the server was much more interested in getting away from him than giving him slag, and he left the mess without further incident. He went back to his own space in the temple to eat, and pray.

The three hounds looked up and greeted him with tail wags. Tizzy and Kizzy had moved into the same doggie bed, curled up together while he was out. All three saw his cup and immediately tried to convince him in their own ways that they were Starving To Death. Tizzy whined pathetically while Kizzy gave him the soulful look, and the infantry hound just put his head down on his paws and looked Utterly Dejected.

“You lot are just hopeless, you know that?” Ratchet gave them all a share of his attention, but not his fuel. He needed every drop he’d been grudgingly given, and the dogs had all fueled already. “Nice try.”

His hand was covered in dog spit by the time he left them in their beds and went to the contemplation corner. It was well past dawn, and the guilt of skipping prayers was already gnawing at him. Primus would understand… right? With a sigh, he knelt down in front of the shrine and started lighting candles. He could do a couple extra prayers as penance. Just a couple. It wasn’t like he’d skipped on purpose.

He set the cup down next to him and picked up the string of prayer beads so he could keep track of his prayers, in the unlikely event that he actually managed to get lost in the candlelight — in communion with Primus — enough to lose count.

Nope. The only time he lost count it was because he almost nodded off between the last repetition of Welcome The Light and the Benediction Of The Dawn. He went ahead and finished that section and put down the beads. That was enough. 

He blew out the candles and wobbled as he got to his feet. He  _ had _ forgotten to finish his fuel while he prayed. Habit. He scooped it up and downed it more quickly than was probably wise, then tottered off to his berth.

It was a good thing it was sturdy. As soon as he reached it he basically fell onto it, optics off before he was even fully horizontal.

Wolves howled, echoing through the crystal trees. Ratchet drove frantically, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape; something monstrous nipped at his rear tires. He could hear a strange, echoing engine in pursuit, feel the hot air of exhaust on his back bumper. He knew with absolute certainty that he didn’t want to look but, with a growing sense of dread, he realized it was going to catch him. Soon, all too soon it would overtake him and he would be forced to confront—

A wall of fire sprang up around them, summoned in response to the thing’s howls. The flames blocked the road, cutting him off, and Ratchet spun out as he braked hard in an effort not to run into them.

Fire touched his tires, and he transformed in a panic. He landed in a heap, sprawled out on the ground. Something laughed.

Turbowolves stepped through the fire, sulfurous, unholy flame clinging to their plating. They circled and sniffed.

_ This is who I am, Ratchet… _ He saw the form, knew who it was, and shut his optics against that knowledge. 

_ No… _

“Ratchet!” 

Unable to look up at the monster in front of him, this demon-shadow from his past, he twisted at the voice, opening his optics to see Drift reaching through the flames to help pull him out and away from the demons. Ratchet clung to him desperately, staggering when cooler air hit him in the face. He could see the shadows of the turbohounds, circling. Drift let him go and interposed himself between Ratchet and the fire—

_ Drift didn’t carry an axe on his back. _

He laughed, the same, horrible sound as the demons. “Not so different after all, am I?” he said, the words lisping past elongating fangs as he rounded on Ratchet. Then all sense left his burning optics and, ignoring his weapon completely, he attacked.

Ratchet screeched and scrambled away—

_ Thud! _

—and right off of his berth.

“…owww,” he groaned, the pain in his hip and elbow registering as real through his lingering disorientation. He blinked his optics on, half expecting to see fire. 

What he saw was nothing more than the darkened interior of his “room” — an alcove really — just outside the veterinary chapel.

A dream. Just a bad dream. Brought on by the lingering contamination on his frame? Or just the stress of recent events? The chapel door swung open and Tizzy — the most mobile of the three hounds just beyond — looked out. He whined but didn’t cross the threshold.

Slowly Ratchet righted himself. “Someone there?” he called, wincing as his hip twinged again.

The hound took that as permission to leave the room he’d been told to stay in and pushed the door open further to tread over to Ratchet. He sniffed at Ratchet’s hip then put his head down on his knee.

Aww. “Good dog,” Ratchet said softly, resting his hand on Tizzy’s back. It was nice to feel that  _ someone  _ gave a damn, even if that someone was turbohound. “I’ll be alright,” he assured him. “Thank you for coming to check on me.”

The dog sneezed on him.

Ratchet chuckled, grateful for the distraction. The worst of the dream was fading, but it had been more than awful enough to have him making a mental note not to sleep while demon contaminated again if he could possibly help it. Drift and… the other one  _ weren’t _ demons! They weren’t! No matter how many times he reread the scripture passages that said the other one was at the very least in league with them.

So then  _ why…? _

Always the same question. Coming out here hadn’t brought him any closer to an answer.

If anything, it had only made things more difficult.

Tizzy nuzzled his chest, pushing his rather cold nose into his abdomen, and huffed. 

“Am I thinking too much and not paying enough attention to you?” Yup. Clearly. Tizzy’s tail got going as Ratchet started petting him, and then the licking started up again. It was a little pathetic how he felt more comforted by Tizzy’s company than the prospect of a vigil and ritual cleansing tonight. But the dream had shown him why it really wasn’t a good idea to put off these things if it had been caused by contamination. He didn’t know for sure it was, but what if it had been?

Nope. No putting it off any longer. Even if that hadn’t had anything to do with dreaming of demons, he couldn’t take the risk. 

Now he just needed to find someone willing to cleanse him. Theoretically, it was the duty of all clerics to help with such rituals. They safeguarded their people’s sparks. In practice, well, Ratchet just  _ knew _ Pharma would find a way to refuse.

Extricating himself from Tizzy, Ratchet hauled himself up off the floor and brought the turbohound back to his bed beside Kizzy. “Behave, you three,” he told them all. “Stay.” He got three variations on a Do We Have To? face. “Stay,” he repeated, then headed out in search of a cleric.

He avoided Pharma, who was gesturing wildly with his wings at Arcee while a much recovered Hot Rod lurked in the background. Most of the other clerics actively avoided him in turn, and he got passed down the line until he ended up with a too-young femme named Velocity who had just barely been promoted to full clergy.

“I’ve studied this ritual a lot,” she promised, more nervous because she’d never been called on to perform a cleansing before than because it was Ratchet who’d asked for it. “Don’t worry, I know what I need to do.”

_ Good, _ he wanted to say but held his tongue. Instead, he just nodded. The cleansing pool was only deep enough to cover his ankles, and perfectly clear when he looked into it. It had been filled by magic, rather than by collecting water from a river or lake, which was as it should be. He’d already showered to remove mundane grit and grime so he wouldn’t contaminate the pool with his very real dirt. 

Unlike the cleansing pool in the First City, or the waystations for soldiers in between, these candles had been blown out and needed to be relit. Ratchet heard Velocity muttering under her breath, reminding herself of the words before beginning the prayer in earnest. Raising her face to the sun, she called down a spark of Primus’ light to ignite the first candle. Then, chanting in unbroken cadence, she lit the others from it. 

That task complete, she turned to Ratchet to begin the next set of prayers. She paused briefly between each one, muttering what had to be mnemonics for each of them before performing them, but aside from those little interruptions she performed very well. A couple of fumbled pronunciations could be forgiven, especially since she wasn’t making any omissions, and her confidence grew as she went along. Ratchet was able to stop worrying about her execution and focus on his part of the ritual, reciting the prayers required of him as she poured handfuls of water over him to wash away the contamination lingering in his frame.

It took joors. By the end, Ratchet’s limbs ached from kneeling in the cool water in a way he’d once found pleasant and even a little heady, Primus’ Blessing filling the room like smoke. Now it just ached. He wished he could have taken comfort in the ritual, but while there was a little bit to be found in going through the familiar motions, that was essentially all it was for him: going through motions. At least he felt cleaner, and he’d sleep better for having done it.

He helped Velocity clean up after the ritual was complete, and made the effort to be polite. Even if she was as young as a full priest possibly could be, he couldn’t afford to alienate the one cleric who seemed willing to do blessings, prayers, and cleansings for him.

“You did very well,” he told her honestly. 

She beamed. “Thank you. I’m happy you felt comfortable coming to me for something like this. I asked for an army post so I could help.”

Ratchet was just glad  _ she’d  _ been willing to do something like that for  _ him.  _ “Is this your first assignment?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s… different than I thought it would be.”

Ratchet sighed. “I don’t think there’s any way to prepare for the realities of combat.”

“I hid during the raid,” she whispered, ashamed. 

“That’s not an uncommon reaction, you know.” Especially in one so young, who wasn’t actually a member of the military. “And it’s not a completely bad one. You aren’t a soldier. Your job during a battle is to stay safe, stay out of the way, and do what you can to help the wounded.” Some clerics fought, but a lot didn’t, and there was no expectation that they do so.

“I came because I thought I could help soothe soldiers’ sparks, help them come to terms with what they were doing. I don’t think I can, unless I come to terms with what we’re doing, and I’m not sure I can.” She sniffed. “And now Pharma has me on cleaning and mail duty for the foreseeable future.”

“Want to know a secret?” Ratchet said, laying a hand on her shoulder. He shouldn’t say it, he  _ really _ shouldn’t say it, but, “Pharma’s a jerk.”

That startled a laugh out of her. “You know I can’t agree with that.”

“I do know, and you should do your best to find a way to work amicably with him since he is your senior.” Ratchet didn’t bother because there was no way for him to work amicably with Pharma; making sure the chief healer tolerated his continued existence was as good as he was going to get. “Those duties may seem boring and like they have nothing to do with why you wanted to come here, but they’re still important to keep the place running. You’re still helping, and it will give you time to think about whether or not you should stay or put in for a transfer.”

She frowned. “I could go back to the First City, seek advice from one of the senior priests maybe. That’d give me a chance to see the Prime-Ascendant’s letter on its way.”

“That,” Ratchet said with approval, “sounds like a very good idea.” It would get her away from the front lines, and the temple had better resources to help her than this tiny outpost. “There’s no shame in realizing you need guidance and asking for it.”

And he wasn’t any more qualified to offer that guidance than a rock.

“Thank you. I’m going to go make arrangements now. She did say as soon as possible!” She laughed lightly. “She also implied the regular mail would be fine. Princess Prowl won’t be back from wherever she is until after the New Vorn, but this way I can safeguard it and make sure it doesn’t get lost!”

“She’s writing to the Praxan princess?” About the Polyhexian somehow-not-demon magic? 

“According to the address. She said it was important.”

“Then maybe an escort for it would be no bad thing.” Even if Velocity leaving within a cycle or so compared to the Prime-Ascendant leaving in three wouldn’t make much of a difference, with Prowl in Polyhex until the New Vorn. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. You’re not so bad.” She trotted a few steps away, stopped, and turned back. “Primus bless.”

Not so bad? Ratchet managed to hold back the derisive snort. “Primus bless,” he echoed.

“So much for the only person in the garrison who thinks I’m ‘not so bad’,” he muttered once she was out of sight, heading for the corral to check on the ponies. Better she was somewhere safe though; this was no place for someone so new to the world. He was glad the prince would be leaving soon too. 

The ponies were all doing well. Two were missing, probably for work. The rest were still clean and none of them had any rust or signs of infection. Some were still surly enough to try and bite, but none reared or tried to run. Thank Primus for that, because when he checked on the state of the stable next, it was clear they were going to be staying right where they were for a while.

“What a mess.” Ratchet turned to leave and saw Hot Rod surveying the wreckage as well. “Let me guess. Not a natural fire?”

“Wasn’t quite magical either,” the mage answered, picking up a charred piece to scrutinize; he even licked it. “I think it was a variant of alchemist’s fire. A lot of fire arrows to maximize their chances to hit something flammable and some lucky ones landed on the horses’ feed buckets.” He dropped the piece and made an expanding gesture with both hands. “Boom.”

That would do it, Ratchet supposed. “I’d wondered. It all came down so fast.”

“The princess wanted me to check. If it  _ was _ magic, that’d indicate that there are a lot more rebel mages than we thought, but this,” he gestured to the carnage, “anyone with the right recipe can make. Or buy.”

“Long way to haul it if they’re buying it.” Of course, they’d have to bring in the supplies to make them if they’d gone that route. There just wasn’t much out here in the border mountains.

“Yeah. Hopefully, that means they don’t have much of it.”

_ Primus willing.  _ Ratchet just nodded.

“You looking for Drift?” Hot Rod twisted to look at him again. “He’s with the princess right now, but he’ll go back to his pups eventually.”

“No, I was just,” Ratchet gestured around, “looking. I should be getting back to the dogs myself.” He had armor to hammer out.

“Alright.” He turned back to the rubble, kicking through it a bit. Ratchet didn’t linger. As soon as he had permission to leave, he left, ducking into the chapel with a sense of relief.

All three dogs greeted him with tail wags. The infantry dog even barked once.

“Hi. Are you feeling a bit better?” He had more energy than Ratchet had seen him display since he’d been brought in. “Looks like the company is doing you some good.” He’d had Tizzy’s armor on his mind when he’d come in, but he started with the infantry dog instead to make sure he hadn’t worked any bandages loose.

One of the mesh pads had been worked — or pulled — off and Ratchet covered the wound with a new one, noting that the dog was healing well from his burns. 

“A couple more cycles and I’m not going to have a reason to keep you here,” he told him. Mixed as his feelings were about what that would mean for the mechanimal, Ratchet was glad to see him doing well. He nuzzled Ratchet’s hands, looking for treats. “Maybe later. I’ve got a lot of things to catch up on.”

Prayer vigils and cleansing rituals might be good for the spark — or at least his dubious status around the garrison — but they didn’t stock shelves or clean up the chapel. The next attack could come at any klik, and Ratchet wanted to be ready.

.

.

.

The rebels did attack again the next cycle, twice. Quick, cowardly attacks only, but still. They fired arrows — fire, acid, and regular ones, all — over the wall and lobbed spells at those on patrol from the forest, never coming out into the open. Nothing caught fire this time, though it was a near thing for the mess hall. 

Tizzy was recovered as soon as Ratchet finished hammering out the dents and reattached his plating. Kizzy needed another cycle and a new coat of paint he only got because Drift was a member of the Prime-Ascendant’s entourage.

A  _ persistent  _ member of the Prime-Ascendant’s entourage. Ratchet couldn’t fault him for wanting to be near and take care of his turbohounds, but the mech kept popping up in other places around the garrison, conveniently wherever Ratchet happened to be. Once or twice might have been a coincidence, given the relatively small size of the place, but two cycles in it was obvious he was doing it deliberately.

Ratchet, in what he felt was a perfectly reasonable response, began avoiding him deliberately.

He really did not want to deal with Drift. The mech meant well, but it hurt to look at him. He kept seeing flashes of another mech, one who had been so much like Drift, and the continued dreams were not helping. They weren’t quite as horrific as the first one — the cleansing had banished the fire, the axe, the rage — but they were just as fraught in other ways. Why, when they were so similar, had things worked out so differently for the two of them? Had Ratchet done something wrong? Had the priesthood as a whole? How could he even think that?

So he avoided Drift. He wasn’t lonely anyway. Talking to the infantry dog wasn’t at all pathetic. Prince Silverstreak kept coming back to do it, and Ratchet would never  _ think _ of calling the prince of a foreign nation pathetic so talking to the dumb dog was just fine.

On the third cycle, he came back from doing chores and spotted the prince just as the young mech was leaving the chapel once again. He looked a little wrung out, and Ratchet guessed he’d unburdened himself about the battle, having to face and fight the demons, onto the turbohound’s shoulders. Good; mech needed someone to talk to, and being a prince limited his options. Ratchet would have offered, propriety be damned, if he were still a cleric… but he wasn’t, and that was that.

He couldn’t offer Primus’ understanding or absolution.

Such thoughts — such  _ realities _ — made it difficult to haul himself up out of his berth for dawn prayers, but he couldn’t take the time for silent contemplation on  _ this  _ morning. It was going to be the last dawn prayers lead by the Prime-Ascendant, since with Tizzy and Kizzy well (and Arcee fully recovered), the royals would be leaving this cycle.

He would be glad of not having to dodge Drift anymore, but he would miss the aura of light that surrounded the service. Sometimes, on his worst cycles, Ratchet caught himself thinking it would be easier if he simply didn’t believe Primus existed. Then he would come to his senses; an incomprehensible god was better than no god at all.

He didn’t stand around to gawk at the royals’ party as they packed their ponies and make their final speeches. Or rather, Ratchet heard from where he was taking the infantry dog out for his first substantial exercise since his injury, as  _ Pharma _ was making speeches. To listen to him talk, you’d think they’d withstood an entire horde of demons (there had been three, and the princess still insisted they hadn’t been demons), that Arcee and her guards had turned the tide of the battle with the light of Primus (she’d been knocked unconscious, nearly killed, and laid up for three cycles afterward), and that he, as chief healer, had personally seen to it that there had been no casualties on their side (he hadn’t, especially where the mechanimals were concerned).

“What a load of slag,” Ratchet whispered to the turbohound. “Can you believe him?”

The dog wagged his tail and pushed his head against Ratchet’s hand.

Arcee and Silverstreak didn’t show any sign that they found his pontificating ridiculous, but Hot Rod tapped Drift’s arm and made a face when he thought no one was looking. Drift’s composure didn’t visibly crack, but Hot Rod was still grinning after he shooshed him. EM agreement, probably.

Opening the gates was going to be the most dangerous part of the whole affair. They weren’t under siege, but only because there weren’t enough rebels out there to keep them pinned down at all times. There were still enough to threaten at any time though, and this would be a strategic opportunity for an attack. As such, everyone was on duty — even Ratchet, walking his dog, was on standby as the royal party and their guard all mounted up or transformed and got into formation in the courtyard. The gates wouldn’t close completely behind them right away, in case the rebels actually forced them to retreat, but the less time it had to stand fully open, the better.

Idly scratching the hound’s head between his audial flaps, Ratchet watched the gates crank open, agonizingly slow. 

Finally, the convoy started moving. Usually when the Prime or Prime-Ascendant left a city there would be fanfare, meant to scare off the evil spirits that dwelled outside the walls. Now the only ceremony was one cleric using an aspergillum to spray pure water from the cleansing pool over the convoy as they passed. No one wanted the trumpets to draw extra attention,  _ just in case _ the rebels weren’t watching.

It seemed, at first, that they actually weren’t. The convoy cleared the gate without incident, and the sound of their tires and hooves fading into the normal quiet of the forest as they headed down the road. 

The quiet lasted just long enough for Pharma to start congratulating himself.

“Rebels spotted!” one of the soldiers shouted down from the walls. “They’re under attack!”

“Archers!” the army commander barked while Pharma floundered in surprise for a klik. “And cavalry — protect the princess!” 

This was no mere exchange of fire from the cover of the trees. Ratchet could hear the shouts and the clangs of swords and armor and shields. He heard Arcee’s voice commanding the guards to  _ retreat, protect the prince _ in between invocations of Primus to aid her in battle and strike down evil. 

“Demons!” someone else called. 

“ _ Flying  _ demons!”

Startled, Ratchet looked up and saw the silhouette of a flyer against the sky.  _ That  _ was new! 

To his credit, Pharma transformed and took to his own wings without hesitation. He was no fighter, but he was the only flyer in the garrison. “I’ll try to ground him!” he shouted over the roar of his engine as he sped off over the walls.

Ratchet didn’t see how Pharma could succeed. The blue jet was the bulkier, faster frametype of a full Vosk mech, rather than the lighter Vosk and Iaconi mix Pharma was. To make things worse, a second, purple jet dove out of the sun to buzz Pharma, making him wobble in the air. The only mercy was that none of them had any weapons they could use mid flight. All they could do was chase and harry each other until they managed to force their opponent to land or ran out of fuel, which would happen sooner rather than later. Flying was extremely energy-intensive, and even on full tanks, all three of them would have limited air time. Ratchet wasn’t surprised they hadn’t seen either of the rebel jets in the sky until now.

As he watched, the blue one turned to play tag with Pharma while the other peeled away —and disappeared! A cry of alarm went up, only to be drowned out by the purple jet’s engines when he reappeared right over the battlefield and did a barrel roll to release bottles of alchemist’s fire in a haphazard spray over the prince and princess’s guards before disappearing again.

A wizard! But that was a tactic Ratchet had never heard of the Vosk armies using!

_ Bark! Barkbark! _

The sound of the turbohound barking pulled Ratchet’s attention from the battle in the sky, too late for him to stop the mechanimal from charging out the open gate to join the fray. He followed him just beyond the walls before he caught himself. Unless he transformed and drove  _ right into an active combat zone, _ there was no way he was overtaking the dog now. 

“Frag!” he cursed, and instead concentrated on getting out of the way. He didn’t even have a weapon!

From where he was, Ratchet could hear the strut-chilling howls and growls of demon-possessed warriors fighting at the front of the rebel forces, arranged in a wedge that had reached the princess. The un-crazed soldiers at the flanks of the rebel formation started spreading out, trying to surround the Iaconi and cut off the prince’s escape. Additional soldiers sped past Ratchet down the road to provide reinforcements, but the rebels had waited for the royal party to put some distance between them and the garrison. Even with Silverstreak retreating toward them, it didn’t look like they would meet up before—

_ Ccrack _ **_smash!_ ** “Ahhh!”

Ratchet looked up as Pharma came down, struggling to control his descent as smoke streamed from his left wing. Whatever the dark blue jet had done, it had put Pharma out of commission. He was veering toward the garrison, but wasn’t quite going to make it… 

With no idea how badly he was injured or would be when he crashed, Ratchet ran to meet him. Better to be told off for daring to touch him than let him bleed out or combust.

He was knocked back by the shockwave Pharma made when he struck the ground, but didn’t let that stop him. He shielded his optics from the flying debris and stumbled forward, tripped on the edge of the shallow crater, and fell forward. Ow,  _ ow, “Ow!”  _ Luckily he got himself turned around and landed on his back, the tires on his shoulders absorbing the worst of the final impact. “Frag!”

Pharma, meanwhile, wasn’t yelling, groaning, or even whimpering. He was still in alt mode, right side up, but the front of his nosecone was badly dented and the end of his left wing was— actually part of it looked like it was missing, but the rest being on fire was the more urgent problem. Ratchet quickly began sweeping dirt up over it to douse the flames.  _ This would be so easy with just one Create Water spell… _ But there was no use wishing for what couldn’t be.

He hated getting dirt into the wounds, but the fire did slowly go out, allowing him to start working on the most grievous of the damage. Aware he was outside the gates and that a demon-possessed mech or an alchemist’s fire or stray arrows from either side could land on them at any moment, Ratchet focused on getting Pharma stable for transport. His first priority was that one line that was bleeding rather heavily…

After forever and in no time at all, another cleric appeared at their side. “How bad?”

“Unconscious, missing wingtip, external and likely internal energon loss,” Ratchet rattled off at a rapid clip. “Check his other side, I don’t know that all the fires are out.”

“On it.” The mech moved, but Ratchet didn’t look up, tracking him by his field. “Wing come down with him?”

“Don’t think so.” It had either shorn off while he was still high in the air, in which case it had fallen out in the forest, or it had just blown apart and there was nothing left to find anywhere.

The cleric muttered and a globe of water formed above Pharma and instantly fell to soak him. Steam and smoke hissed angrily off of his plating. Then came a healing spell. Ratchet saw some of the damage disappear, but not a lot. It must not have been a very powerful spell, but maybe it was enough for Pharma to wa—

**_DONGGG!_ **

The sound rang out across the battlefield. Ratchet flinched and looked up for the source of the — undoubtedly magic — sound, while the other cleric clapped his hands over his audios with a cry. Across the field, many mechs were doing the same, rebels and Iaconi alike. At the epicenter of the spell Ratchet could actually  _ see _ the distortion in the air caused by the unimaginably loud noise. There, not a single mech still had their weapons in hand, and several had fallen. 

Out of the sun, the purple jet — the wizard — dove for the ground. Ratchet thought he was going to suicide, crashing into the ground as Pharma had, but then—

_ Vop! _

—he disappeared. 

Along with the prince.

There was a delay of a few more nanokliks before what had just happened registered with the rest of the convoy, still engaged in combat. Ratchet heard several cries of dismay and disbelief, and it was impossible to miss the princess’s shout.  _ “No!! You cowards! Bring him back!”  _ There was no despair in her voice, only anger and determination, and the sounds of battle intensified as she tried to fight her way through. The blue jet hovered above in his root mode for a nanoklik, then sounded a retreat and transformed to speed away himself.

“He’s not bleeding on this side,” the cleric said, drawing Ratchet back to their patient. “How about yours?”

“Some,” Ratchet admitted. He’d clamped a line he’d found ripped almost clear through, but there were a lot of smaller tears that would take him ages to find manually. 

The cleric laid both his hands on Pharma and turned off his optics to shut out the battle while he chanted. A klik later, ethereal light gathered around his hands and sank into Pharma. The tiny bleeding tears closed, though the larger wounds remained. 

This time the spell had done enough to bring Pharma back to consciousness and he jerked under them with a groan, making the younger cleric jump backward with an “eeep!” of surprise. Ratchet moved back with a bit more control, not keen to get a wing (broken or otherwise) to the face. “Pharma? Can you hear me?”

The mech let out a rather vile curse that, nonetheless, contained an affirmative.

“Okay then,” Ratchet said, assuming for his own sanity that Pharma was cursing out the mech who’d injured him and not the heretic trying to help him. “We’re outside the walls, and there’s still active fighting. Can you transform?”

With another curse that ended with a screech of pain, Pharma shifted, contorting and twisting painfully until he was sitting there in his mech form. His wing was still almost completely shorn off, and from this angle, Ratchet could see damage to his thrusters as well. “Where’s that blue jet?” he growled.

“Flown away,” Ratchet told him without getting into details. “They’re working on disengaging, but we need to get inside.”

Pharma nodded jerkily in agreement and reached up to let Ratchet and the other cleric haul him to his feet. He wasn’t going to be good for much walking, but they were moving.

The majority of the rebels were retreating now, and Ratchet even saw one of them knock his demon-possessed comrade out with a shield bash to the back of the helm and carry him from the fray. Arcee was still fighting, but as her opponent fell and she started to go after the next, further way, Drift and Hot Rod both tackled her to keep her from doing so.

_ “Silverstreak!” _ she screamed, struggling against her own guards.

“It’s over!” Drift shouted, frustration clear in his voice. “They’re gone! We need to regroup.”

“Not again!” There was so much raw emotion in the princess’s voice it was painful.  _ “Damn it!” _

The wounded were being spread out in the courtyard inside the garrison, and Pharma went down with them, despite his protests. Almost everyone was suffering some sort of damage, from that sound-spell at the very least even if they hadn’t engaged the enemy soldiers or been burned by alchemists’ fire. The clerics were already moving around, triaging people and casting spells, and it wasn’t long before one of the other senior priests appeared to get Pharma back on his feet so he could help. Doing his own sort of triage, Ratchet picked a soldier who was not quite bad off enough to warrant magical healing, but still critical, and started patching as the last of their soldiers straggled back.

Together, Drift and Hot Rod pulled Arcee into the garrison last of all, and the gates closed behind them. Taking in the look on her face, Ratchet couldn’t say he was sorry that it wasn’t his job to approach her first. Shaking them off, she whirled, examining their battered forces. 

“We need to go after them,” she announced. “They can’t have gone far!” Drift said something softly, something she obviously didn’t like because she shook her head stubbornly. “We have to go.  _ I can’t leave him!” _

She wasn’t… she wasn’t thinking about going after the prince herself? Personally?

“Heals first,” Hot Rod said firmly. “Heals, then supplies. You should probably at least scribble out a quick note to the Prime, too.”

It sure  _ sounded  _ like she meant to go in person.

She stared at the mage blankly for a moment, then nodded. She touched Hot Rod and Ratchet saw some of his wounds close up. “Drift.” She repeated the laying of hands on both Drift and the two turbohounds. “You two get supplies ready.”

“Prime-Ascendant,” Pharma stumbled toward her. “You cannot possibly be thinking about going anywhere right now!”

“I can, and I am.” She gave him a quick, assessing look. “I would ask you to come with us, but you’re going to be grounded for some time.”

“All of the clerics are going to be spell-less and exhausted,” Pharma said. “We’ll need at least a few cycles to get enough soldiers ready for an expedition like this, and we can’t send out a force until the next supply convoy arrives. To say nothing of the risk to you. The prince is important, but so are you!”

Arcee said nothing for several nanokliks, then drew herself up, tall and proud. “This is the second time Primus has put this test before me. I will  _ not  _ fail it again. There will be no waiting on a convoy of supplies or trying to move with a battalion through the forest. I will not go unprepared, but go I will, this cycle, before the sun sets.”

It was obvious Pharma wanted to argue, but it was easier to “confuse” the Prime-Ascendant’s commands when she wasn’t standing right there. Ratchet watched him almost literally swallow his protests. “At least wait until next cycle and take one of the other clerics with you,” he pleaded.

“I appreciate your concern,” Arcee held up a hand at that sounds of dismay that went up around the courtyard, “but you forget: I am capable of healing magics myself, enough to look after a small, focused strike team. I have no intention of taking on armies,” she said wryly. “I know exactly how badly that would end. Our goal is simply to rescue the prince while the rebels are still close and he is guarded only by a small, injured force.”

“Then I will go with you, your highness. I’m not completely spent of spells, and surely you won’t catch up with them before morning when Primus will see fit to grant me more.” 

“No. I cannot allow it. You are in no condition to be out contending with the wild.” No kidding, since he was only just managing to stay on his feet where he stood. “It would deprive you of the chance to heal and the garrison of your skills, which,” the princess looked around sadly, “are sorely needed here.”

“And you couldn’t keep up,” Hot Rod chimed in, coming over to set the crate he was carrying down by Arcee. “Even if you weren’t injured, I mean. You’d be stuck on foot, and we’ve got wheels.”

“Yes, of course.” Pharma looked lost. “Prime-Ascendant… I’m capable of riding a zap pony?”

It sounded like a losing argument to Ratchet, but as he moved on to another patient, a part of him hoped Pharma would win it anyway. The idea of her going after the prince with only her personal guards made him feel ill, even though there was no disputing that they were the three most fit to undertake the kind of mission the princess proposed.

One of the sergeants as an extra sword though, or Pharma for his skill as a cleric… surely she would see the reason for a little bit of back up.

Pharma apparently felt the same. “You can’t go alone, my princess. Please don’t.”

“Stay.” Arcee placed a hand on Pharma’s arm. “You are needed here. But we can take one more, I suppose…” She looked around the courtyard. Ratchet’s spark jumped in his chest when her optics stopped on him. “I’ll take him.”

“The  _ heretic?!” _

_ Seriously?!  _ “Me?”

“I don’t care if he’s an arrogant, obnoxious  _ Polyhexian monster worshiper,” _ Arcee hissed, her plating bristling outward as she leaned aggressively into Pharma’s space, of which he already had too little with the princess’s hand on his arm. Somewhere over near the corral, Hot Rod laughed a little hysterically. “He won’t be useless the klik he runs out of spells for the cycle.”

“How flattering,” Ratchet said, though it was clear the princess was recalling someone else. The only part of that meant for him was “not useless”, which was a far sight better than anything he’d been called in a long time. 

“He can’t run out of spells — he doesn’t have  _ any  _ spells anymore,” Pharma said, attempting and failing to back away. “He has nothing he can contribute.”

“Then he has nothing I’ll be depriving you of while we’re gone,” she growled. Ratchet saw Drift ghost up behind her and put a soothing hand on her arm. She glanced at him, then let Pharma go, giving him a look like he was a bit of nasty goo stuck to her tire. “Out of my way.”

Pharma staggered back into the arms of one of the other clerics. He gave the princess one last desperate, worried look, then turned to glare at Ratchet like the whole thing was his fault. As if! Ratchet didn’t want them going off alone, but he wouldn’t have put himself forward for the job of accompanying them! 

Arcee looked away from Pharma, dismissing him, and locked gazes with Ratchet. “Pack what you need,” she commanded, then spun on her heel, stalking toward the rectory — probably to go pen that note to the Prime about this idiocy. Drift, left behind, went over to Pharma and started smoothing his ruffled plating.

Ratchet stood frozen in place until Hot Rod came over and poked him. “You heard the lady. Get moving.”

“Surely one of the sergeants would—”

“The longer you draw the argument out, the more likely it is she won’t accept anyone at all. Trust me, she’s in no mood right now. In a cycle she’ll be more open-minded, but by then we’ll all be out in the forest, so unless you’ve got a good reason not to come with us…”

Ratchet had a dozen reasons, easily. “I can’t wield a gladius anymore,” was what came blurting out of his mouth first. That knowledge had been granted by his connection to Primus and had disappeared along with his spells. Not that he’d had a need to pick up a weapon in far longer than the four vorns he’d been apostate…

“So? You shouldn’t need to.”

Ratchet had no answer to that. All of his other objections — that he was a heretic, that he’d been rejected by Primus, that he had no spells — Arcee already knew, thanks to Pharma, and they obviously hadn’t dissuaded her. 

“I’ll get another pony ready for you,” Hot Rod said when no further protests emerged. “You think one’s enough for you and your fuel and stuff? We can distribute some of your supplies among the others if needed, but if you’re going to need two, I need to know.”

“I— how long will we be on the road?” Ratchet asked, conceding.

“Hopefully no more than a couple of cycles,” Hot Rod said ruefully. Which, they could carry fuel for that long inside their alt-modes, so why did they need ponies…? “But I’m sure the princess won’t drive out of here with less than a month’s fuel.”

“That long?” There was being prepared and then there was being paranoid; of course, there was also going off into enemy territory against unknown odds with no clue what their actual destination was. Viewed in that light, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a terrible idea. That said, “One should be enough,” Ratchet said. Non-magical medical supplies could be a little bulky, but not overly heavy, and he did know how to pack efficiently.

Hot Rod nodded. “I’ll snag you a spear or quarterstaff from the armory too. You haven’t taken a vow of nonviolence, right?”

“Right.” He’d fight if he had to, even if he wasn’t very good at it.

“Don’t dawdle.” The mage breezed away, leaving Ratchet to return to his clinic and begin organizing his tools by which were the most essential and durable. He needed to bring things he wouldn’t have to worry about repairing, which left the finest instruments out. That would have concerned him more if it weren’t for Arcee’s spells, which could repair microdamage better than any tools anyway. It was critical damage she wouldn’t be able to handle, so that was what Ratchet focused on packing for. Welding tip and one spare, several rolls of solder, sheet metal, extra tubing, cleansing fluid and rust remover; bandages, lots and lots of bandages… 

Pharma tried to enter the chapel quietly, but his EM was an unmistakable storm of seething worry, dislike, and distrust. Ratchet could have waited for him to speak first, but letting him have the first word wouldn’t make any difference to his temper. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“I just thought I’d inform you,” he said, in a tone too snippy to be polite and too hostile to be anything even approaching friendly, “that you had better not return without her,  _ apostate.” _

“Don’t worry.” That was a mistake Ratchet knew better than to make even without the ~~threat~~ warning. If the  _ Prime-Ascendant _ died and Ratchet hadn’t done everything he could to prevent it, up to and including throwing himself in the way, it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t a traitor. “I won’t.”

Pharma clenched his hands, and Ratchet saw the frustration these circumstances were causing him. He could sympathize — he wanted the princess to take someone else, someone more suitable too! — but there was nothing either of them could do about it right now.

“At least I’ll be rid of you for a while,” Pharma sneered, then spun on his heel and left.

Somewhat nonplussed at the abruptness of his departure, Ratchet stared at the door for a moment before saying, “Likewise,” to the empty room and resuming packing.

Arcee was pacing next to four (nearly) packed zap ponies when Ratchet emerged. He saw with some relief that Hot Rod and Drift had chosen well; none were injured or mechanimals inherently unsuited for this task. Kizzy and Tizzy, slightly singed around the edges but otherwise well-looking, were also carrying bags of supplies. 

“Here. This one’s yours,” Drift said with a pat to a reddish armored animal, with black hooves and lower legs, and white spots across its rump. It tolerated Drift’s hand, but as soon as Ratchet came close, it laid its audio flaps back in threat. Drift offered Ratchet a soft smile. “Her name is Snip, and she does like to bite, but she’ll be brave and steady on her feet even in the wilderness.”

“That’s more important than friendly, yes.” Particularly since Ratchet had plenty of practice handling uncooperative mechanimals. “I’ve got everything I need here,” he said, setting down his burdens, “and I’m done inside unless someone found the infantry dog I was taking care of.”

Both of the princess’s guards shook their heads. No, they hadn’t seen him. Meanwhile, Pharma came over one last time to argue with Arcee about taking off on such a dangerous venture so rashly.

“Please, please reconsider,” he said, attempting a rational appeal. “What you’re proposing to do is incredibly dangerous.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said evenly, though while he packed his medical supplies onto the pony— Snip, Ratchet could see her armor flick in irritation. She’d been willing to tolerate Pharma when she was acting primarily as a visiting royal and his officiousness had been only irritating, but Ratchet had worked with Paladins before. Most of the time they were content to be soldiers and officers, but now the princess had a Cause, and Pharma was standing in the way. She was done being tolerant. 

“But you don’t know which direction they went! You’ll wind up wandering around the wilderness blind, an easy target for turbowolves, bandits, and demons.”

“Not at all,” Arcee said confidently, looking down on Pharma (despite being quite a bit shorter than him physically). “I am passingly familiar with that sort of teleportation spell. The Imperial Princess Prowl showed it to me, and the wizard could have only taken the Imperial Prince a short distance. And you know — probably better than I do — how fuel-intensive flying in root mode with a passenger is. They will have landed somewhere nearby and continued on foot or pony.”

“That’s where I come in,” Drift put in, turning from Ratchet to the discussion. He reached into the bags hanging off of the pony standing next to him — a specimen with large patches of white and brown — and pulled out a patch of silvermesh cloth. Part of a blanket. “My hounds can find where they set down, and we’ll continue from there.”

It was a good plan. Pharma didn’t have a good counter argument. All he could say was, “I’ll never be able to forgive myself if something happens to you.”

“And I would never forgive myself if something happened to the prince,” Arcee rebutted. “This isn’t like…” She trailed off. “I do not know what the rebels could want with him, but they will hurt Silverstreak — my  _ bonded _ — if they do not get it, and he is strong-willed enough to refuse to cooperate, even in terror…” She closed her hand into a fist. “I’m going,” she said with finality. “I am going  _ now. _ There is nothing more to be said about it.”

“Also?” Hot Rod stepped forward and reached up to put a hand comfortingly on Pharma’s shoulder. “You made every effort to persuade us to stay. That’s enough. If something does happen to us, Primus will forgive you.”

Pharma shot Hot Rod a rather poisonous look but didn’t object to his logic. “Please, let me cast a blessing for you. If that’s all I can do…”

That Arcee acquiesced to with a sharp nod. 

Ratchet recognized the words of the prayer as a simple one, meant to guide and protect the recipient of the spell. The princess and each of the guards accepted with thanks, but Pharma didn’t offer to bless Ratchet as he finished up his packing. Drift looked like he was about to say something about it, but either he saw Ratchet shaking his head or decided against it on his own. Pharma didn’t have to bless him. It would be a meaningless gesture if they forced the issue.

Then, with the ponies all packed and a decent amount of sun left in the cycle, it was time to go. Hot Rod handed Ratchet the quarterstaff he’d promised.

This time, watching the gates crank open was accompanied by a gnawing pit in Ratchet’s stomach. They were really…

Arcee transformed and accelerated out of the garrison as soon as the gates were open wide enough to admit them. Hot Rod followed. Ratchet fumbled with his staff, tucking it into his own cavity as he transformed — a maneuver that was no longer instinct. Drift took up the rear, urging the ponies to follow at a swift canter.

It was really happening. They were really doing this, and Ratchet was going along with it like it was completely fine. 

It wasn’t fine. Orion would have never sent him out here if he’d known this was what would come of it.

Arcee slowed as they passed the battle site and turned toward Kaon. “It would make the most sense for them to have put down near the road, so we’ll start there.”

In his car form, Drift didn’t nod. He pulled up and transformed, and pulled out the silver blanket for Tizzy and Kizzy to sniff. They did so eagerly, burying their heads into the cloth. Tizzy sneezed. “Find!” Drift commanded, and both dogs took off, their long strides carrying them into the trees. 

Drift transformed back, “They’ll let us know when they have a scent.”

“And until then we, what? Just sit and wait?” Ratchet asked.

“Pretty much,” Hot Rod answered cheerfully. “By the way, what’s your top speed?”

“Excuse me?” This wasn’t a race!

“Top speed,” Hot Rod repeated. “So we know how fast we can go and expect you to keep up versus knowing we’re leaving you to catch up. We need a protocol in place for getting separated, and we’re not doing anything else at the moment.”

Arcee spun in an irritated circle, making an aggressivelooking doughnut in the ground. “We should keep heading toward Kaon,” she said. “The hounds will find us.”

Was that an order or a suggestion?

“We won’t be able to drive very fast while they’re searching,” Drift warned. “They need to be able to catch up.”

“Slow driving is better than no driving.”

Order it was. Drift moved up into the lead position and kept going, quickly followed by Arcee. Hot Rod revved his engine but waited for Ratchet to start moving before taking over rear guard/pony management. “You didn’t answer me,” he said over the sound of his tires on the somewhat rough but relatively even ground. 

Ratchet told him. He wasn’t the fastest car out there, but he could hold his own over rougher terrain than most. On a smooth road, Drift could beat him out easily — he knew this, having traveled with Drift after harvesting the mech and acting as his mentor during the journey to the First City where he could be trained as a huntmaster — but if they had to go into the forest, he would be less hindered than they would.

Hot Rod mulled over the information, asking extra questions about additional specifics until he had everything he needed. “We’ll be able to go at our usual pace for regular travel then. If we need to sprint though, you’ll wind up falling behind.”

“I can take care of the ponies,” Ratchet said. Arcee had picked him for his extremely high qualifications of “not useless”, so he definitely didn’t want to slow them down or be in their way.

“You able to handle all four at once if we’re sprinting away from something, rather than toward?”

He wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he could, no. He could handle one pony just fine, but keeping them all in line during a panicked retreat… “I’ll do my best.”

Apparently, that was good enough, because there was a flicker of  _ acceptance/approval  _ in Hot Rod’s field. “That’s settled then: you’re responsible for the ponies in the event of a separation. It should be easier if you’re just bringing them along to catch up with us if we need to sprint toward something, which is just as likely as having to run, if not more so.”

Was it? Ratchet had no way of judging. He’d never done anything like this before. 

He was still coming to terms with the fact that he was doing it now.

“So. Wishing we did have an arrogant, obnoxious monster worshiper with us?” The words were light and teasing. Drift dropped back slightly to swerve across Arcee’s path in an affectionate nudge that didn’t risk a collision. 

“She would be able to tell us where they went by the patterns of birds in flight,” Arcee replied, “or the disturbances in the wind, or something equally inane.” 

“Probably, but we’d have trouble understanding her unless she’s learned a lot more Praxan since the last time we saw her,” Hot Rod laughed.

“I  _ did _ go and learn that trading pidgin after all that,” Arcee huffed.

Who were they all talking about? Ratchet didn’t know, and he was hesitant to interrupt and ask. A Polyhexian? Someone they’d worked with before… Jazz maybe? They didn’t say. “Obnoxious and arrogant” was enough of a descriptor for them all to know who they were talking about without needing to name her. Ratchet got the feeling that she was someone they respected for her wilderness tracking skills, but wouldn’t even consider trying to befriend.

His curiosity had just overcome his reluctance, and he’d started to frame the question when one of the hounds bayed. The other joined in, and tension zinged through them all. 

“They’ve found a scent,” Drift confirmed, veering off the road into the forest to catch up with them. Arcee was so close on his rear bumper Ratchet was surprised she didn’t just overtake him, while he and Hot Rod followed with the ponies. 

Okay. This wasn’t too bad. They were moving swiftly, but not dangerously fast. This was doable. 

It became less doable the farther away from the road they got. Not impossible, but wow was there ever a difference between wild terrain and even a poorly maintained road! And he’d been right about the others having it worse than him; Drift bottomed out in a craggy ditch hidden by crystal growths and had to transform and climb out before they could continue. 

Ratchet shivered. He didn’t share the others’ confidence in moving through the forest. It was darker than the full daylight above, and he kept seeing strange shapes and shadows, half-hidden by crystals. Even stranger sounds echoed menacingly. There were demons that lurked outside the cities. Everyone knew that! This was not a place mechs were meant to be, and Ratchet was understandably freaked out.

The sound of the dogs was a familiar one to focus on, at least, and he tried to listen to them instead of all the other things he couldn’t identify. They would get closer, then farther away, then closer again as the dogs followed the trail and they followed the dogs. He wasn’t hearing any warning barks or whines… surely that meant they weren’t about to drive into anything horrible, right?

They caught up with the dogs when they finally stopped at a spot that had obviously been used as a small camp. Drift pulled up, transformed, and examined the signs.

“Four or five ponies,” he muttered, “a campfire… not much else. I think the two flyers were the only ones here.”

“Did they hurt him?” Arcee flipped out of alt to her feet at the edge of the disturbed ground, careful not to step on anything. “Are there any signs of a struggle?”

“A moment. I’m not the best at this.” Drift paced around the area, looking at… Ratchet didn’t even know what. “There are. The prince fought and was subdued, but I don’t see any fluids or anything that would indicate he was seriously hurt. He was probably stunned by a spell.” 

_ Relief _ warred with  _ worry  _ in the princess’s field. “Alive and not hurt is good,” she said in a careful, steady voice that sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “Subduing instead of killing is good.”

“There was a second struggle here,” Drift murmured. “Not the prince. A mechanimal of some sort, but again I don’t see fluids.” He shrugged. “It’s just a staging area, a place to secure the prince and transfer him to a pony. I’d guess they were here overnight, but once they had the prince they stayed less than a joor.”

“Which means they’re on the move now.”

“In all likelihood.”

Arcee didn’t waste another nanoklik. “Which way?”

Drift didn’t answer immediately. He examined the ground again and watched his dogs sniffing the soil. “That way, I think.” He offered the blanket to Kizzy and Tizzy again. “Find.”

As if to confirm Drift’s guess, both hounds took off in the direction he’d indicated.

Again they were driving too fast to really talk. That was alright. Ratchet needed to focus on not crashing more than conversation, even as his curiosity mounted. If he got the chance, and they didn’t find it too presumptuous, he had several questions he wanted to ask. As a bonus, piling up questions proved to be a good way to distract himself from his nerves too.

The shadows under the canopy obscured how long they had been driving; Ratchet only noticed how close they were coming to nighttime when the sun dipped below the mountain and plunged the forest into darkness. 

Arcee skidded to a stop with a curse. 

“They’ll have to stop too,” Drift reminded her.

“Primus be praised,” Hot Rod huffed. “Frag, it’s freezing up here.”

“Fuel and settle in.” Arcee paced around the spot. “I’ll take first watch, and we’ll set off again at dawn.”

Right. Watches were a thing. Watches were a very good thing, in fact. The very idea of sitting up, staring into the dark made Ratchet shiver, but he offered anyway. “Do you need me to take a shift?”

“If you would,” Drift said politely. “I can stand part of it with you. I don’t have spells to refresh. Guard,” he instructed the dogs firmly, pointing at the ground. 

Great. Sitting up watching for demons in the dark would be so much better with the mech who brought all of his own inner demons to the fore beside him, but there was no graceful out. “Wake me when it’s time?” Ratchet asked, tacitly agreeing to the joint watch.

“Then Ratchet and Drift have second and third, and Hot Rod has fourth,” Arcee announced, brushing her hands against each other. That would give the two mechs who needed rest to have a full complement of spells next cycle a hopefully uninterrupted stretch of recharge. “Perfect.”

Perfect for her, maybe. Ratchet scanned their surroundings, trying to figure out how to make the best of a less than ideal situation. He could clear a level patch so he could sleep on his tires and be somewhat comfortable… except for the temperature. “Any advice on sleeping arrangements?”

“I think I understand Ricochet’s impulse to laugh at us,” Hot Rod heckled, transforming into root mode next to Drift. “Not that I’m actually laughing…”

“Other form, Ratchet,” Drift instructed, much more gently. “It’ll still be cold, but you’ll fit under the tarp we packed for you.”

Confused, Ratchet nonetheless transformed and walked over to the others. “Have to admit I’ve never camped quite this rough before.”

Drift drew a cube of fuel from the bags he removed from his zap pony, handed it to Ratchet, then went back for another. “Fuel up. Unpack the pony. Then recharge.”

“You can pile in with us, if you want,” Hot Rod offered graciously.

Pile in with them as in, lay together with them like they were sharing a berth? Ratchet hesitated. He’d never taken  _ those  _ vows, but that was more familiar than he wanted to get with Hot Rod and especially Drift. “Thank you for offering, but I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Offer stays open,” Drift murmured.

Behind them, shedding nervous energy like a layer of flaking paint, Arcee was taking the bags off of her pony as well, feeding him, and tying him to a nearby formation of crystals. Rather than pulling out a tarp and getting ready for sleep, she went on to build a small fire, barely larger than a candle flame, and take a position on the edge of the light, facing out into the darkness. Brooding.

Not wanting to disturb her, Ratchet went about drinking his fuel and taking care of his pony quietly. Drift and Hot Rod joked with each other a little, but they too got everything taken care of quickly and efficiently: the better to get in as much recharge as possible before having to be up again. They settled together in a pile of limbs under their tarps, and Ratchet gave them some space when he picked his own spot.

The tarp was big enough to just barely wrap all the way around him, keeping heat from escaping out into the air or into the ground. It did escape out of the unavoidable cracks, though, and Ratchet shivered. Not a comfortable night. 

Somewhere in the distance, turbowolves howled. Definitely not comfortable.

As the joors crept by and he struggled to get to sleep around the freezing wind, the unpredictable popping of the fire, and the disturbing sounds floating all around just beyond the edge of the camp, he upgraded his assessment to a miserable night. Apart from overnight vigils in walled-off cloisters, Ratchet had never spent a whole night directly under the sky. Traveling between towns and outposts was slower and involved more elaborate camp configurations. Even his last journey out to the garrison with the Seventh Luminary Infantry had seen him furnished with a small tent.

It made him irrationally angry that Drift and Hot Rod were having no trouble whatsoever snoozing in their pile.

The wolves had stopped howling long before, “Up,” Arcee whispered, kicking him lightly. “There’s something out there.” She then left him to wake the other two. Onlining his optics revealed she’d let the fire, small as it was, die down to barely a glimmer and drawn her sword. From somewhere nearby he could hear Tizzy and Kizzy growling.

“What is it?” he whispered back, folding up his tarp so he wouldn’t become entangled in it.

“Wolves, probably,” was the equally soft answer.

Slag. Slagslagslag. Ratchet fumbled in the dark for his staff, for all the good he expected it to do him. The sword Hot Rod had in his hand when he came over to guard his back would be much more useful.

The first creature emerged from the trees like a nightmare, and Ratchet had to shake himself, certain he  _ was _ dreaming. It was no wolf, but a hound, one he saw often enough in his dreams. 

She — because Ratchet  _ knew _ it was a she — was lean and hungry, but didn’t have the patches of missing paint and unhealed armor and opportunistic rust infections characteristic of a starving mechanimal. She whined pathetically and inched cautiously closer, ears down submissively and tail wagging in greeting like she was glad to see them.  _ Trap, _ his instincts whispered, even as he could see the others responding to an apparently domestic animal in distress.

“Don’t,” he whispered, unsure if he’d managed to make any sound come out of his vocalizer at all.  _ She’s wild! _

“Don’t wha—”

_ “Ratchet?” _

The voice from the trees was rusty and disused, scratchy and full of pops like the speaker hadn’t spoken in vorns. He probably hadn’t, assuming this wasn’t just another nightmare! At the rough sound, several pairs of glowing wolf-optics peered out of the forest from all around them, the creatures no longer bothering to hide. The others tensed, but Ratchet had to resist the urge to step forward.  _ Primus.  _ What was he  _ doing  _ here? Was this really happening? It couldn’t be; he was dreaming, definitely dreaming, seeing  _ him  _ because of everything that had happened… 

Emotion welled up in Ratchet’s spark, conflicted and powerful enough to make his engine stutter. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” he got out, his own voice strained and somewhat choked. “I was sure I would never see you again.”

The hound — the mother hound — was looking over at him, and a wolf came out of the forest to nuzzle her affectionately. She no longer looked like a submissive, lost pet happy to see mechs; she had dropped the act in favor of a calmer, more wary demeanor. Tizzy and Kizzy growled, but Drift held them back. 

“Ratchet?” Hot Rod asked, magic hovering on his fingertips uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

Ratchet barely heard him. Another pair of optics had come on, resolving out of the forest. Brilliantly blue, and much higher off the ground than the wolves around them, they shone in the darkness an instant before the mech himself materialized. He had the same lean, hungry-but-not-starved look as the mother hound. “The trees,” he said in that same rusty, disused voice, “said I’d see you again, but they did not know when.”

“The trees said that?” Ratchet shook his head, still in disbelief. “That’s more than Primus ever told me.”

“Ratchet,” Arcee’s voice cut through the dreamlike, almost nightmarish quality of the encounter. “Explain. Now.”

“We just wanted the prey, the zap ponies,” the mech looked greedily over at the animals, nervously snorting and stamping their feet, while still more wolves melted out of the forest. 

“I’m sorry, but we need them,” Ratchet said, mentally scrambling to get his metaphorical tires back under him. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart! “We’re on a very urgent mission, and we have to be able to travel fast. I, ah, should probably make introductions,” he looked between the mech and the princess. “This is her highness, the princess Arcee, Prime-Ascendant of Iacon.” The mech would know what that meant; that was the easy part. The hard part was, “Your highness, this is… this is Hound. He was harvested in Iacon, and I…”  _ I failed him. _

“Not part of Iacon,” Hound said stiltedly into the awkward silence. He stalked with the gait of the wolves, sniffing like a curious hound. Drift silently moved to block him from going near the ponies and for a moment they, two warped reflections of each other in Ratchet’s gaze, looked into each others’ optics. Then Hound sniffed in amusement and stalked away. “Left,” he finished telling Arcee.

“But you didn’t go to Kaon,” she said. Her sword stayed at the ready, but her voice softened. 

“Didn’t go anywhere.” 

“Right then.” She looked around at the wolves, then stood up straighter and sheathed her sword. “As long as you will not interfere with us, you may stay and visit for as long as you wish. Ratchet, Drift, you’re on watch.”

That… that was it? She was really just going to go to bed, without saying  _ anything  _ about the mech who was, according to everyone who had ever met him, everyone Ratchet had ever spoken to, and every scripture he’d ever consulted, in league with demons, if not a demon himself? Not that any of that had ever convinced Ratchet. He’d known in his spark that Hound was a good mech; an odd one, yes, but not evil.

Apparently really. Arcee ignored their guests, except to shove a wolf away from Drift and Hot Rod’s pile of tarps, and wrapped herself up in them. A little more warily, Hot Rod put away his sword and followed suit, cuddling up to the princess shamelessly.

Now Ratchet was incredibly glad he’d turned down the offer to “pile in”!

“Ratchet? Are you alright?” Drift was looking at him with concern. “You look a bit…” 

“‘Overwhelmed’ is the word you’re looking for,” Ratchet said, so many thoughts in his head he could feel them all lagging as they competed for prevalence. He turned back to Hound. “You’re really here.”

Hound blinked in bemusement as if to say  _ Of course I am, why would you think I wasn’t? _ The wolves were snuffling and sniffing through camp curiously, and the ponies were definitely Not Happy about it. Snip reached out as far as her lead would let her and bit the closest turbowolf, which yelped in surprise and anger. Hound barked, and the wolf slunk away from camp, chagrined. “We are here, every this season,” Hound said to Ratchet. “Follow the prey. You are really here?”

“I am.” Against all the odds, he was here. But now that he was, what should he say? What could he say? “Have you… been well?”

“Follow the prey,” Hound repeated, huffing a laugh that sounded more like the barking or yapping of the turbowolves than any sound a mech might make. “Not starved yet.” 

“That’s good.” Not for the prey, perhaps, but for Hound and his— what were they? Friends? Family? Pack? The thought was vaguely nauseating for Ratchet. Killing mechanimals and eating the fuel? He suppressed a shudder. This whole encounter was surreal, and Ratchet didn’t want his reaction to end it. Almost unconsciously, his optics slid over to Drift to see how he was reacting. 

He was still tensed, holding back Tizzy and Kizzy where they were crouched, half fearful and half aggressive of the wolves — enemies! — wandering freely in the camp, but the huntmaster had lowered his weapon. He didn’t look like he was about to explode over the idea that Hound ate living fuel…

Drift caught the look. “It’s not an entirely novel idea for me,” he said, mild voice not fully masking the note of stress underneath.

“It’s not?” 

“We,” Drift nodded at the other two sleeping members of the party, “have been forced to do it. We paid penance for it, cleansing our frames and sparks of the sin. And it seems to be the way of life on the Rust Sea, among Polyhexians.”

The words lodged in Ratchet’s processor like a revelation, stunning him so that he didn’t know how to reply beyond a simple, “Oh.”

Hound, on the other hand, was immediately curious. “Others hunt to live? Other mechs?”

“I, uh, don’t know how much Polyhexians  _ hunt,” _ Drift backtracked a bit. “Ricochet knew what she was doing, but she did more digging and netting than anything else. But just because she dug little rock-things out of the ground doesn’t make them less  _ alive.” _

“Hunt with tools is still hunt,” Hound declared, smiling. “Never met others.”

“Um…” Drift looked around at the turbowolves. “That was a long way from here.”

That didn’t bother Hound. “Others somewhere is good.” He turned to Ratchet. “It’s not a bad life.”

“According to Primus, it is.” According to the temple, the only mechs who would willingly choose such a life were those beyond His light. That was where the trouble had all started, because Ratchet could not believe Hound was anything other than good. It was a discrepancy he still couldn’t reconcile.

Hound just scoffed. “Doesn’t need Primus.” He looked at them both. “Sit? Will not eat your ponies. It is not polite.”

“Thank you,” Drift said, gesturing them over to the all but extinguished fire. “You two can sit, but I should stay on watch.”

Hound let out another yip-laugh. “We watch,” he said, settling on the cold, hard ground with ease. “Better watch.”

Drift looked around a little helplessly at the pack of wolves. There were at least six, plus the mother hound. “I guess you could.” He sat down and started soothing Tizzy and Kizzy. He poked the fire a little higher and looked out into the forest. “It is still my duty.” 

Hound shrugged. He crouched and two turbowolves and the mother hound came over to make a warm pile with him. Ratchet went and grabbed his tarp for warmth while Drift just elected to sit close to the renewed fire. The mother hound watched him as he chose a spot, and Ratchet met her gaze as long as he could before he couldn’t take it anymore and had to look away. “She’s still with you.”

“She is mother,” Hound said, petting her. She flicked her audial flaps but didn’t start wiggling and panting as the other dogs did. “Cares for pups. Good hunter. Good for pack.”

“You know her too then?” Drift asked Ratchet.

“Yes. When I said Hound was harvested in Iacon, I didn’t mean by the priesthood.” 

Hound guffawed again. “Thinks I pup. Still.”

Drift still looked confused, so Ratchet elaborated. It felt so strange to talk about after so long… “You know how mechanimals will come into the hot spots at night and dig up their own kind? Well, she dug up his capsule along with her other pups.”

“I didn’t know that was even  _ possible.” _

Hound stretched and snuggled deeper into his pile with the wolves. He looked as comfortable and happy with the larger, wilder version of the mechanimal as he ever had with the domestic turbohounds Ratchet had seen him nesting with as a newling. “We didn’t know it was either. Everyone was surprised when we came in to perform the Coming Into The Light and found them all curled up together in the corner of the grounds.”

“Don’t remember others,” Hound said indifferently. “Remember you.”

Ratchet nodded. “You didn’t spend as much time with any of the others. I was the senior cleric in the town,” he told Drift. “I was there to lead the ritual.”

“I remember that from when I was harvested too,” Drift said. “You were on circuit.”

Yes; that was one of the many, many parallels between the two mechs that neither of them were aware of. Ratchet worried at the edge of his tarp. “When I did the divination for his path,” he said softly as he stared into the fire, “the spell said he would be a huntmaster.”

“Oh?” Drift looked over at Hound, catching on quickly. “Oh.” He reached over and stroked Kizzy, then Tizzy. Both mechanimals edged closer to their owner. 

“Yeah.” Ratchet’s hand hurt from clenching the tarp. He forced his fingers to relax. “Can we talk about something else?”

Drift’s optics softened. “Sure, Ratchet.” 

Hound, unaware of the context, nonetheless went along with the request for a new subject. “Why come out into the forest? Why bring Prime-Ascendant out of the city?”

“Bring  _ her?  _ Oh, no. She’s the one dragged  _ me  _ out here,” Ratchet said.

A laugh-bark; a couple of the wolves chuffed as well. “Fine. Why she bring you?”

“I— you know, I’m not entirely sure.” It didn’t feel right to say out loud that it was just because he was “not useless” and it had sort of shut Pharma up. If nothing else, that would have required explaining things that fell along the lines of all the stuff he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re out here on a rescue mission, which I’ve never done before.”

“Res-cue…” Hound repeated, breaking down the word. All newlings came out of the hot spot with a sense of the local language, and were fully fluent within a few cycles, but either because he’d only spent a few decacycles with Ratchet, or because of the vorns in the wild since then, some of the less-used words were obviously going to be problematic for him. “Excessive shake out?”

“A mech was taken,” Ratchet corrected, putting it in simple terms. “The Prime-Ascendant’s bondmate, Silverstreak. We need to find him and bring him home.”

“Yes. Understand that.” Hound nuzzled the wolves in his pile. Around the camp, the others were settling down into their own warm mounds of plating. “Pack takes care of pack.”

That was an analogy Ratchet could run with. “There’s a problem though — a rival pack. They have him, and we don’t know where they are.”

“Only three packs of mechs out here right now. Up there,” Hound gestured back towards the Iaconi border, where the garrison was, “in stone houses and walls. Torches. Other is there,” he gestured vaguely the way they had been going before being forced to stop, “in tents. No torches, but many mechs watching for wolves. Third is you.”

“They,” Drift looked in the direction of the mechs in tents, “are the ones we’re tracking.”

“They make so much noise. Easy to find. If they do not eat your packmate, he will be there. Too many mechs for this small pack to fight though.”

Uh oh. Ratchet wasn’t worried about the Kaonex rebels eating the prince, but, “How many are there?”

“Lots,” Hound said, omitting any kind of number. “Bigger than wolfpack right after harvest. Big as burrow full of glitchmice.”

Drift frowned at the imprecise estimate. “Somewhere between one and two dozen, probably,” he translated after a moment. “With at least two flyers and three or more who fight possessed.”

“Against three mechs and two dogs? Hound’s right. You can’t win that fight.”

“Four mechs,” Hound pointed at Ratchet, who shook his head.

“I can’t fight. I fix things once the fighting is over.”

“You had fang,” Hound insisted. “I remember you had fang.”

Fang? Of course, his sword. “Had,” Ratchet emphasized. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“Lost?” He shifted and untied a dagger from his armor. “My fang. You can have. Mechs fighting leave them on the ground. I can find another.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I can’t use it. Not well enough to fight with.” 

Withdrawing the dagger, Hound whined in confusion. “That pack of mechs is too big. I do not know how you get your packmate back.” The biggest wolf he was piled in with huffed and flicked his audial flaps. This one had thick, dark plating covered in scars, including one that had left his audial flap in tatters. Deep crimson optics burned with a sort of…  _ alien _ intelligence that Ratchet couldn’t comprehend, and he thought that if any of Hound’s pack was a demon, it must be this one. “He says small pack of wolves cannot steal stolen pack from that many mechs. Hurts, but would have to abandon.”

“She won’t,” Drift said. He was looking over to where the princess was sleeping, an odd expression on his face. “Not until we’ve seen the other pack with our own optics.”

Hound nodded like he’d expected nothing less. “Mechs are not wolves. Less practical, for good and bad. I will help rescue lost packmate. Will not hunt mechs. And,” he stroked his companion’s helm, “will not ask my family to take risk for mechs, but I will help Ratchet.”

What? Ratchet felt his jaw drop. They could certainly use all the help they could get, but what would Arcee have to say about it? She was alright with an apostate like Ratchet traveling with them, but Hound was— actually, he was still better than an arrogant, obnoxious Polyhexian monster worshiper, which she’d also said she’d be fine with. As long as his wolves weren’t actually demon wolves. “You’d really be willing to do that?” 

“Mechs should not take packmates.” Hound tilted his head and looked at the princess curiously. “Maybe not take wolf packmates later?”

Was he trying to negotiate safety for his pack in exchange for his help? It sounded like he might be, in which case, “You should ask her in the morning. I can’t speak for her.”

Hound nodded. “Rest? We keep watch.”

“You can, if you want,” Drift said with a look that said  _ I really think you should.  _ Ratchet would have argued on principle if he wasn’t so tired, physically and emotionally, but he was, so he didn’t.

“Thank you,” he said, and decided to just go ahead and lay down where he was. It was closer to the fire than where he’d been before, and maybe that would help him actually get some rest. The last thing he saw before shutting off his optics was Drift and Hound, both cuddled with their companions, so similar and yet so very, very different. Drift had his back to the fire, a protective figure against the darkness of the forest. Hound faded into the shadows and his wolves peered in, mysterious.

_ You’re being fanciful, _ he told himself and tried to sleep. Maybe he’d wake and the whole encounter would prove to be a dream.

.

.

.


	5. Part Four

.

.

.

It didn’t. 

The first clue that he hadn’t imagined the whole previous, impossible cycle was the frost on his plating when he woke up at his usual time. The sun wasn’t up yet, and without its warmth, the air was quite brisk. Ratchet sat up, keeping his tarp wrapped as closely around him as he could while he took a look around the camp. 

The sheer number of turbohounds — no,  _ wolves  _ — he saw lounging around was another clue.

Hound had fallen into his own recharge at some point, curling up with the mother hound and the big black wolf. The others had moved around and settled all over the place. There were five, no eight in total happily snoozing away. Then there were the three who weren’t sleeping and were instead sniffing through the substrate of broken crystals looking for… who knew, really.

Hot Rod, busy with his spellbook, illuminated by a dim light spell, waved distractedly at Ratchet. He’d stoked the fire higher, to drive back the darkness and provide additional light in the pre-dawn.

“Good,” Arcee’s voice came from where she was busy packing up the zap ponies. “I don’t have to wake you.”

“No, you don’t.” So many vorns of getting up for dawn prayers meant Ratchet almost always got up at the same time every cycle before dawn. The only thing that interfered with his internal clock was extreme exhaustion. A single cycle of rough driving and one night of shortened recharge wasn’t enough, even with the additional emotional turmoil. “Have you spoken with either Drift or Hound?”

Arcee shook her head. “Your friend has been asleep since I got up, and Drift is—”

“Here,” the mech announced sleepily from his pile of tarps and dogs. “I’m up!”

“Good,” Arcee said again, and Ratchet got the impression that her patience wasn’t any better this morning than it had been last night. 

Maybe hearing that Hound had offered to help them (help him, technically, but it amounted to the same thing) would give her some hope. “Hound was able to tell us a little about the mechs we’re chasing last night, your highness.”

“Did he?” Arcee’s optics snapped over to the wild-mech and narrowed. Ratchet saw her plating bristle in suspicion, but then it smoothed back down. “What did he say?”

“That he knows where they are, and has a vague estimate of how many opponents we’re up against.”

“And what does he want in exchange for his help finding my bonded?” She turned back to packing, yanking the tarps off of Drift and shoving them into the saddlebags more forcefully than necessary.

“Hey,” Drift protested mildly. Kizzy and Tizzy stood up and shook out their plating, which roused some of the sleeping wolves.

“He didn’t make any demands. There was something he mentioned that I imagine he’d appreciate, which I suggested he discuss with you, but beyond that…” Ratchet understood her suspicion, he really did. He’d even been expecting it. 

Hound didn’t deserve it.

“He offered to help out of the goodness of his spark,” he said, rising to his feet to stand at his full height. “He recognizes that what happened to Silverstreak was wrong, and he’s willing to help right it. He’s a  _ good mech,”  _ he insisted, speaking not just to Arcee but everyone who had condemned him in the past. “Whether he worships Primus or not.”

It felt  _ good _ to say it. He knew it. He’d always known it, and finally  _ saying it _ — and to the Prime-Ascendant of all people! — felt like finally taking a stand against his own doubts. He dared her to say otherwise. It would finish breaking him if she, standing in for Primus Himself, did say Hound was a demon, but Ratchet was tired of doubts. If she broke him, so be it… 

“Peace. I did not mean to malign his intentions. Being a follower of Primus’ light — or even a member of the Guiding Hand — is not a litmus test for goodness.” Arcee held out a hand toward Ratchet to forestall any interruptions while she finished speaking, but didn’t look up from her packing. “But good people have motives, and can desire, or even demand, rewards for their actions.” 

“Yes. Of course they— yes.” Ratchet’s posture deflated, mostly out of shock. She’d just acknowledged that mechs who didn’t follow their god, even gods, plural, weren’t automatically agents of the Destroyer. The  _ Prime-Ascendant  _ confirmed there could be goodness outside their faith. Ratchet trembled. She couldn’t have said that if it wasn’t  _ true. _

“Woah…” Ratchet was only barely aware of Drift coming up beside him, supporting him and guiding him to sit as his knees threatened to give out. “I’m not sure what happened, but you need a klik.” 

“A klik only,” Arcee said sharply, unaware or unconcerned by the enormity of her proclamation. “We need to say prayers and then get moving.”

Prayers. Prayers were a thing. They were a thing Ratchet should know how to do after doing them every cycle since he came out of the ground, but they were too much for him to focus on right now. What he was feeling… It was too new and too big to form complete thoughts around yet.

“Is he going to be okay?” he heard Hot Rod not-really-whisper to Drift. Drift shrugged. 

Finally stirring, Hound’s pile untangled and he stretched and shook, settling his plating like the canines. The other wolves followed suit. If Ratchet hadn’t been in such a state of shock, he would have been surprised that the mech did not greet them with a good morning or similar. He just checked on each of them with a quick glance, and then sat down to start scraping dirt off of his green plating. 

One of the slighter wolves bounced excitedly, and another popped up from where it had been resting. After a quick thump of their front paws on the ground, they started fighting, the snarls and growls sounding quite frightening.

“This is absolutely not me volunteering,” Hot Rod said, backing away, “but shouldn’t someone stop them?”

“Are playing,” Hound said, stretching again, unconcerned, as one of the two wolves broke off and started running, with the other baying at its heels. “It is how they do morning.” 

“I didn’t see the signal,” Drift murmured, “but some turbohounds are the same.”

“Prayers,” Arcee reminded, stuffing the last of her things into the saddlebag. With a deep sigh, she brushed a place clear of broken crystal so she could kneel with her prayer beads.

Unfreezing somewhat, Ratchet dug out his prayer beads and knelt as well. Drift stayed right beside him like he was worried he’d wobble again, but he needn’t have. Physically Ratchet was already feeling sturdy again, despite his thoughts still being such a jumble he only managed to complete one coherent recitation of Welcome The Light by the time Arcee was back on her feet.

Hound, who hadn’t knelt or prayed, looked up at her from where he was “playing” with one of the wolves. He shoved his playmate and sat back on his heels in a crouch. “Track lost packmate?”

“Yes.” She looked at her hands, then back to Hound. “Ratchet said you knew where the mechs who took him are.”

“Yes. Makes lots of noise.”

“Please… take us there.” Arcee sounded like she didn’t dare hope.

“Yes. Will.” He made a sound that sounded like a cross between a yowl and a growl, and all of the wolves rolled to their feet and shook themselves. Then they scattered into the trees. “Follow,” Hound commanded and transformed.

Arcee was in alt mode within nanokliks. “Hot Rod, with us. Drift, Ratchet, see to the ponies.”

Oops. Ratchet still needed to stow his tarp. Hopefully, it was the only thing still out. He stowed his prayer beads and grabbed it, folding it quickly into a rough square so he could roll it up to fit in the last unsecured saddlebag. Drift held the flap open so Ratchet could stuff it in, then secured it and did one last visual sweep of the camp.

“We’re good,” he announced, transforming and whistling to Kizzy and Tizzy. “Let’s go.”

Ratchet followed suit, and together they all took off to catch up with the others. They’d gotten a good head start in just that little amount of time! He was afraid they might have lost them, but then he spotted the mother hound, sniffing at something under the substrate. She looked up as they approached, and loped forward like a shadow flitting between the trees.

“Was she waiting for us?”

“Looked like,” Drift said. “My two would have been able to pick up their trail, but this is easier. I’m glad it’s her rather than any of the others though.”

“Why?”  _ Because you think the others are demon-wolves? _

“Because the ponies aren’t as afraid of her as they are of the rest.”

Ratchet offered a silent apology for assuming the worst of Drift.

They didn’t talk much after that. The rigors of traveling through the wilderness hadn’t changed because they had a guide. Ratchet wondered just how the rebels were doing this. He’d thought the ones attacking Darkwatch would be camped a lot  _ closer. _ Maybe they had been, and they’d retreated once they had the prince. He was going to have scars on his undercarriage from his wheels kicking up crystals even with Drift maneuvering them around the worst obstacles, like ditches and fallen crystal trees.

The trees themselves were eerie, even in the new morning light. Ratchet had spent his earliest vorns in the shadow of the temple gardens, and he couldn’t even tell if these were the same species of tree or not, they were so different in how they grew. Bright white quartz was the backbone of the garden, and these were in some ways similar, but a dark, dusky grey, full of occlusions, pockmarked with damage, and covered with haphazard growths. They were definitely moving away from the road and into the mountains, but Ratchet’s sense of direction was all turned around by the wrongness of the crystals.

Sometimes they got close enough to the others to hear their engines or catch glimpses of their paint. Hot Rod, in particular, was easy to spot through the undergrowth, but while the princess’s blue was a little less obvious, she had nothing on Hound’s ability to camouflage himself with their surroundings. Ratchet didn’t see him even once, though for the most part he and Drift were forced to continually play fall-behind-then-catch-up as they herded the ponies.

Of course, around all the different aspects of the drive demanding his attention, Ratchet still found time to think about the morning’s revelation. 

Because Arcee wasn’t just anyone. She was the  _ Prime-Ascendant. _ Primes were… well, Orion had said that Primes weren’t perfect, that they made mistakes, but they didn’t make mistakes  _ about demons.  _ If Arcee said Hound wasn’t a demon, that his pack weren’t demons, that meant they weren’t — not just to her, but in the optics of Primus Himself.

It raised as many questions as it answered. Ratchet hadn’t been able to shake his belief that Hound was a good mech no matter how much opposition he encountered, though he’d lost the confidence to declare as much publicly. Not all of that opposition had been based on personal prejudice; a lot of it came from divinely inspired sources and texts. It had left him floundering, unable to reconcile where to place his faith in the face of two conflicting messages from a source that refused to clarify anything, no matter how he prayed or pleaded.

Now, he had that clarity. If he could believe the Prime-Ascendent — and he couldn’t  _ not  _ and still call himself a follower of Primus — then he hadn’t been wrong in his judgment of Hound’s spark. 

Why, then, had his divination been so wrong about his path? Why did the scriptures say he couldn’t be anything but an enemy of the temple? And why, why,  _ why  _ had Orion never said anything like this?

Well, as to that last, if Ratchet was being honest, he’d never asked Orion about any of it. If Optimus  _ Prime _ had said that all the scriptures were right, and that Hound was in league with demons, had been infected by the Destroyer while gestating… 

_ I couldn’t have taken it. _

“Ratchet?”

“Huh?” He hadn’t been so lost in thought he’d run into anything. “What?”

“I… Are—”

Whatever Drift was trying to ask was interrupted by Arcee and Hound swerving to a stop right ahead of them and transforming. Hot Rod pulled to a stop and idled on his tires, and Drift slowed to pull up beside him. 

“If we go more close,” Hound said quietly, “mech pack see us. Can go up,” he pointed up a craggy path, “look down, but cannot scent lost packmate from there.”

“But we might be able to see him.” Arcee visibly weighed their options. “How long will that climb take?”

“Take until night. Wolf do it fast. Mech not so much.” Hound reached down and scratched the mother hound along her shoulders, and she wagged her tail slowly. “Mother hound can go look. Has gone into mech pack before, to beg for fuel.”

“That won’t tell us much though,” Hot Rod said, and Ratchet agreed with him, but the princess was actually… smiling?

“How much can the two of you communicate?” she asked Hound. “Would you be able to get a description of their camp from her?”

“Not description like you think of. Hound does not think like mechs.” Hound chuff-barked a laugh with a twinkle in his optics that suggested he was still linguistically capable enough to be aware of the double meaning of his statement. “We can talk. Can ask her many things, if asked right. Can see through her optics and senses, if self is safe.”

“You can  _ do  _ that?” Drift blurted out.

Hound blinked. “Can. Always can.”

“As a newling, Hound said the mother hound spoke to him,” Ratchet whispered. “I didn’t…” He hadn’t believed him, not at first, and after he’d found the first reference to talking animals being demonic in scripture he hadn’t wanted to believe it at all.

“She thinks I pup,” Hound agreed with a smile.

“Can you do it now then? Will you?” Arcee spoke to Hound, but she glanced at the mother hound too, almost like she was including her in the conversation. Drift did that all the time with his turbodogs, but that was just playful fun. He knew they didn’t understand him. This was something else, and Ratchet didn’t know how to feel about it.

Hound crooned to her and the dog looked at him seriously. 

“She wants to know how she will know which two-legs is your two-legs,” Hound said after a moment. “And also if she can beg. Pack did not get ponies and is hungry.”

“Begging is fine,” Arcee said. “I would say be careful about it, but if she’s done it before I suspect I don’t need to.”

“She has. She is a good dog.” 

“As far as how to know my mate, he will be the only one wearing a line of paint down his chest like this,” she indicated the silver on her chest, then tapped a blue section of her plating, “but in this color. Also, Drift, please get the blanket.”

“Right, yes, of course.” Drift transformed and practically scrambled over to the ponies in his haste to pull out the silversilk blanket. “Scent is the best for a turbodog…”

“It is,” Hound agreed. “No two things have same scent.”

The mother hound came forward to sniff the blanket when Drift held it out just like Kizzy and Tizzy had, though she didn’t bark to announce when she’d gotten the scent. Hound also came forward to sniff the blanket. Ratchet expected Arcee or Drift to shoo him — he couldn’t be getting the scent as the hound could! — but Drift looked to Arcee, and Arcee didn’t interfere. 

“Okay. We will go look, see if he is there,” Hound settled onto the ground comfortably. The big black wolf came up and sat next to him, rumbling quietly. After licking Hound’s face, the mother hound trotted off in the direction of the rebel camp.

“Guess we’ve hit hurry-up-and-wait,” Hot Rod said, transforming and walking over to the ponies much more sedately than Drift had. They were shying at the proximity of the wolf, so he led them a short distance away to secure them. 

“Where are the other wolves?” Drift looked around. 

“Hunting, probably,” Arcee said, unaccountably casual about the concept of the death of one creature to feed a pack of others. “As Hound said, if they’re not going to eat our ponies, they need to find other food.”

Hot Rod raised his face to the sun and mumbled something Ratchet didn’t quite catch. Drift must have, though, because he chuckled. “We’re considerably better prepared this time.”

“It still gives me shivers. Not fun.”

“What wasn’t fun?”

“Eating a wild cy-buck while Ricochet laughed at us.”

Drift shoved Hot Rod lightly. “Why am I not surprised that Ricochet laughing was the part that had an impact on you?”

“Hey!” Hot Rod shoved back.

“Who is this Ricochet you keep mentioning?” It was the easiest of the many questions Ratchet wanted to ask just now. Would he ever feel like he was driving on solid ground again?

“Jazz’s twin, she—” 

“How much do you know about the Imperial Princess’s spark resonant?” Arcee interrupted. She was pacing restlessly around their waiting area. Despite that, Ratchet thought she was showing a remarkable amount of patience by not trying to storm into the rebel camp to rescue her bonded immediately. “What, exactly, happened isn’t common knowledge even in Praxus.”

“I don’t know much at all,” Ratchet admitted. By the time Arcee’s betrothal to Prowl had been announced, he had already withdrawn from the priesthood and thus from politics. “I know her name is Jazz, and that she’s one of the heathen Polyhexians who live out on the Rust Sea.”

“Polyhexians,” Arcee continued at a measured pace, “practice ritual kidnapping as a form of courtship. I still don’t know the exact rules, but I do know — now — that there are very strict expectations on how the kidnapper can behave, and that Jazz is an honorable femme by the measure of her own people. Ultimately Prowl was in no danger, but I was nonetheless obligated to go after her. Ricochet is Jazz’s twin and she helped us track an otherwise  _ fragging untrackable _ boat down  _ leagues _ of coastline for over a decacycle, because, as Smokescreen put it, we were so utterly pathetic as a rescue party that we dishonored Jazz’s attempts to prove herself worthy to her new mate.”

Skipping over who Smokescreen even was, “You’ve done this before then,” Ratchet made the connection. 

“This is no misguided but well-meaning barbarian who will release her victim when she fails to win her over,” Arcee said, spinning sharply on her heel to begin another circuit of the clearing. “These rebels can have no benign reason for taking the prince.”

“Fails to win her over?” But hadn’t Jazz and Prowl recognized their resonance and bonded? 

“The Imperial Princess was betrothed at the time,”  _ to me, _ Arcee did not say. “Praxans do not abandon their secular duties lightly.”  _ And don’t you dare suggest she would!  _ was the implication. 

Ratchet quickly backed away from implying any such thing. “So Prowl refused Jazz.” But then, somehow, her betrothal with Arcee had ended anyway. If Prowl hadn’t been the one to call it off, the only other reason he could think of for that to have happened was if… “Was it genuine? Is the Imperial Princess truly resonant with… with…” 

“Jazz,” Arcee finished the sentence. “Warrior Jazz of Rainclouds Island, Polyhex.”

She used her full name and title. She called her honorable. “You didn’t theologically oppose their bonding?”

“They are _spark resonant,”_ Arcee growled with what Ratchet recognized as defensiveness on a loved one’s behalf. “She was spark broken when she left Jazz behind. I would not deny what was _obviously_ _true_ just because Prowl’s mate was not me.”

“That’s not— I didn’t mean—” If she felt this way about Jazz bonding with her former intended, to the point of aggressively defending the validity of their resonance and breaking their engagement to respect the blessing of Primus on one who was supposedly incapable of acting in the interests of good and light, then, “It’s really possible? Despite what the scriptures say?”

“I have been through  _ every single one, _ and the scriptures say  _ nothing _ about Polyhexians being incapable of spark resonance — either with each other or those who dwell on the mainland,” Arcee declared.

“Again, that’s not what I—” Ratchet cut himself off with a sigh, finding a fallen crystal branch to sit on before he fell down for the second time this cycle. “I’ve read them all too, your highness. Over and over and over. I  _ know  _ Jazz has magic — what the texts call demon magic. What they called Hound’s magic, even though I knew he wasn’t,  _ couldn’t _ be an agent of the Destroyer. But how could I refute them?” To cast aside part of the scriptures because he didn’t like them? Because he thought he knew better? “I’m not so arrogant as that.”

“You do not need to refute them. Despite its often unsettling nature, Polyhexian magic has been ruled by the Council to be of this world, not granted by the Destroyer.” Arcee looked around the camp a little helplessly. “An easier ruling to accept for some when it didn’t pertain to anything so near our own borders. Another ruling will likely be called for regarding Hound, but I don’t imagine the verdict will be any different. Animals are spirits of this world, everywhere in this world.  _ Primus’ creations. _ Any magic they grant cannot be inherently evil.”

“Spirits.” Animals. Not demons. Natural magic, neutral magic, wasn’t heresy. Just as wizards and magi not of the clergy, like Hot Rod, could draw magic from their own spirits because mechs were of this world, of  _ Primus’ creation. _ Ratchet hid his face in his hands as a weight lifted from his shoulders.

“It’s a little bit of a theological shaving of meanings,” Arcee said ruefully, turning to make another circuit of the clearing. “Some of the oldest scriptures do clearly intend for all references to ‘spirits’ to refer to enemies of the faith, but that interpretation has already been revised to account for both arcane magic and the other gods of the Guiding Hand. And Polyhexians do call on spirits outside themselves, which raised some plating. But the alternative was war with a nation we have no border with, little knowledge of, and no ability to reach by ship, over the magics of three undeniably virtuous femmes who’d done nothing but find Primus’ gift in their love.” She shook her head. “That could not be Primus’ will.”

“I didn’t want to believe it was,” Ratchet whispered, confessing at last what he’d struggled so long alone with. “But I doubted.”

Arcee spun to look at him, and, for what felt like the first time, really  _ saw  _ him. “Is that what cast the greatest healer and foreseer of our temple down to mere veterinarian?”

“Part of it.” Ratchet sighed again. He felt so wrung out and tired, but also, for the first time in ages,  _ better.  _ “A big part of it.”

Arcee glanced at Hound, sitting still with his optics dark as if in recharge, while the black wolf watched them warily, then in the direction of the rebel camp. Something about her posture shifted as she made a decision. “You two,” she snapped to her two guards, who were crouched over some sort of game drawn in the dust in a pathetic attempt to look like they weren’t trying to eavesdrop. “Go find us a less exposed place to camp in case we’re here for more than a few joors.”

“On it!” Hot Rod jumped to his feet and set out right away. Drift lingered a moment, looking at Ratchet. Then he looked at Arcee, nodded silently, and went after Hot Rod.

Once they were gone, Arcee came over to Ratchet’s fallen crystal and sat down. “This is a horrible place for a confession,” she said.

“It really is,” Ratchet agreed, too relieved to refuse. “I’m sorry to burden you with this now when you have so many other things to worry about.” His personal problems certainly weren’t as important as rescuing the prince!

“Primus did not make a perfect world,” she sighed. “Spill.”

Ratchet finally looked up at her properly, surprised. “Spill?” How informal!

“You heard me.”

Still surprised, Ratchet nonetheless laughed. Her directness was actually refreshing, not seeming like she just wanted him to hurry up and get it over with so she could move on. It was the blunt, no-nonsense approach of a soldier, and it suited her. “I told Drift pieces of this last night, but the short version is that Hound was dug up by the mother hound the night before I was due to lead a harvest in his hometown. We found him curled up there with her, watching us. None of us had any idea what to do, and since I was the one in charge, I decided to perform the usual ritual and divinations and include him with the rest. The path Primus laid before him was that of a huntmaster.”

“Which obviously wasn’t at all what he’s meant for,” Arcee said with another glance at Hound. “And you’ve been wondering if something went wrong with you, or with him, or with Primus Himself for it to turn out like this.”

“All of the above. I took him on personally to be his mentor until we returned to the First City, but he never got that far. He wasn’t comfortable around large groups of people, and I would often find him in the forest outside the town with the mother hound. Talking to her, apparently. Have you ever spent time with newlings, your highness?”

Arcee wrinkled her nasal ridge. “Not really. I’m not exactly excited by the prospect either.”

“Not everyone is,” Ratchet said without judgment. Orion loved newlings, but duty kept him from interacting with them much. “I enjoy it though, and I’ve spent a lot of my life with them, especially when they’re really, truly new to the world.” He missed it. “They ask a lot of questions once they have enough of a grasp on language, and you can tell a lot about them by the kind of questions they ask. When Hound started asking questions, there was no doubt in my mind that he was one of the gentlest, most sensitive sparks I had ever encountered. He believed, immediately and completely, in the sanctity of all Primus’ sparks in a way that even adults struggle with.”

“Which is hard to reconcile with someone who’s chosen to hunt mechanimals to live, but…” Arcee shrugged. “It happens.”

“Not within my experience it hadn’t, and when I looked for guidance… I must have read every tome in that town at least twice. Some more than that.” There had been answers there, but they weren’t answers he could accept. “I cast and recast the divinations to the best of my ability, spent an entire cycle in continuous prayer and consulted all of the other clerics and priests. Over half of the contingent returning to the First City didn’t want him accompanying us, but in spite of the almost overwhelming arguments to the contrary I still advocated for him. That carried a lot of weight back then, and I  _ did  _ have experience with newlings drawn to mechanimals. Everyone knew I had mentored Drift and how well he’d turned out, and I was so sure there had to be a way…” 

But there hadn’t been. Ratchet faltered momentarily, but the Prime-Ascendant simply waited patiently, expectantly, until he continued. “I came to find out the mother hound had been bringing him the mechanimals she hunted to feed him like the rest of her pups. When I confronted him about it, Hound said he saw nothing wrong with it. He wouldn’t give it up, insisting that it was the way of the forest and that he was a part of it.”

“You fought over it,” Arcee said quietly, “and then he left.”

Ratchet nodded, optics downcast. “We fought. With words only, in our case, but it did become physical between him and some of the others, though his attacks against them were purely self-defense.” He shuddered and drew a deep breath, bracing himself to recount how it had ended. “We were delayed in our departure for the First City. The town watch spotted a wolf pack passing through the area and advised us not to travel until they had moved on. When I first heard, I thought,” he laughed hollowly, “that it was a blessing in disguise. It would give me more time to find a way to get through to Hound, to guide him onto the right path. Instead…” Instead the wolves had overwhelmed the guard and attacked the town, and when they finally managed to drive them back, Hound had disappeared into the forest as well.

Arcee looked at the black wolf with perfect comprehension; it — he? She? — glared balefully back. “I don’t see anything that could have gone differently,” she said. “And it may be bordering on sacrilege to say so, but the divination spells do have a failure rate. Primus never gives us mortals a perfect view of the future, even for something so seemingly simple and ingrained as how we assign newlings their places. I took an interest in that spell in particular while we were renegotiating the treaty with Praxus, since they do things so differently. Hundreds of vorns of castings and it’s pretty clear: occasionally it outright fails. Sometimes the caster is left floundering, seeing just enough of a glimpse to fill in whatever makes sense at the time. Other times it fails in more subtle ways, showing what  _ could  _ have been in another world or circumstance rather than what can actually be. And sometimes what Primus gives us just doesn’t make sense, for no other reason than we are mortals and He is a god.”

“Does it really?” It probably would have fascinated him, if he hadn’t spent the last several vorns tearing himself up over what his failure meant for him as a mech, as a cleric, and as a follower of Primus. Spell failure itself wasn’t unknown to him, but before Hound, Ratchet hadn’t  _ gotten  _ incorrect or incomprehensible information when a spell didn’t work; he simply got nothing. The drastic departure in that one instance from how others saw him and, more importantly, his sense of who he was, had been devastating. 

“No mortal magic — even that granted by Him — can show the entirety of His plan without error,” Arcee imparted kindly, then surprised him with a confession of her own. “Do not pass this on, but… Hot Rod is as legitimate a Prime-Ascendant as I am. All of the omens surrounding his harvesting are right for it, apart from one: there was already both a Prime and a Prime-Ascendant at the time. This isn’t necessarily a failure of the spell, since there were multiple Primes in the past, but how are we to interpret that  _ now?” _

_ Hot Rod  _ as Prime-Ascendant? Now there was a bizarre notion. And a dangerous one. The last time there had been more than one Prime had been in the last vorns of Galifar, and there was still enough bad blood lingering from those times that there were rulers and councilors and even kings who would start wars if it were known Iacon once again had two Primes. “It will go no further than me,” he promised. The other possibility that sprung to mind — that Arcee would not be Prime long enough to train her own heir — was too awful to contemplate. “Though I’m afraid I don’t have an answer.”

“Primus does not have one either. Not one He will share with us.” Arcee sighed. “In regards to Hound: we may never know what happened, simple spell failure or complex divine plan, but… Iacon is changing. Something in our struts is changing, and Hound — the very fact that someone like him could exist, right here in Iacon, and be virtuous —  _ has _ to be part of that.”

“Not  _ just  _ Iacon, if Praxus is willing to marry off its princess to a Polyhexian pirate— er, warrior, and Kaon is in the middle of a seemingly demon-fueled civil war.” It was a comfort to hear her say it though. The signs of change had been there; even in his isolation he had seen some of them, but after so long in doubt, Ratchet had ceased to trust his ability to judge what was going on around him accurately. The voice of an authority he recognized gave him the  _ surety  _ he’d sorely missed. “I hope the majority of the changes will prove to be for the good.”

“As do I, but I am no foreseer. All I can do is act in accordance with my own Primus-given spark.” She narrowed her optics, looking in the direction of the rebel camp. “Though I would dearly like to know what is changing in Vos that a pair of theirs can be found here.”

“Please don’t tell me you also plan on using this mission to find out.”

“No. I am getting my bonded back. That is all.” Her hand clenched. “Vos can wait.”

Yes, it could. Getting the prince back was a tall enough order as it was. 

“Thank you,” Ratchet said, gratitude suffusing his field. “Thank you for bringing me with you, and for making time for me. I only wish there was more I could do to help than trail after you and slap bandages on the dogs.”

“If Hound finds Silverstreak, then I’d rather have you than the entire council of bishops.”

“I did find,” Hound said, his optics flickering on. “Your lost packmate is there. Mother hound is still begging food, but we walked around to look.”

Arcee and Ratchet both turned to look at him. “He is?” the Prime-Ascendant asked, leaping to her feet. “Is he hurt?”

“We did not scent blood,” Hound said, hugging the black wolf, then stretching to work out the kinks of sitting so long before standing. “Mother hound is not good at seeing injury that does not leave blood-scent, not if there is other reasons to be stressed.”

“Thank Primus,” Arcee said softly, her optics dimming for a moment before flaring back to their full intensity. “And thank you.” Ratchet could see she was still worried about the other ways he could be hurt, but not bleeding was still a very good thing. “What else did you see?”

“Many, many things.” Hound looked around like he wasn’t sure he wasn’t still in the rebels’ camp. “Hound does not see like mech.” He chuffed a laugh, again amused at his own pun. “Patience, yes? Should move. We will still be here come nightfall.”

“Maybe Drift and Hot Rod have found a place for us,” Ratchet said, getting to his feet as well. “I’ll go ask them.” They’d been set a serious task, yes, but he didn’t think they would have gone far; Arcee had obviously intended to get them out of eavesdropping range, not send them out ranging.

“What about the rebels — the other pack? Are they staying where they are?”

“Could move,” Ratchet heard Hound acknowledge behind him. “But other hounds are not anxious, so I do not think will move, not soon.”

That was a relief to Ratchet. Two cycles of breakneck wilderness travel had been more than enough. 

He didn’t hear Arcee’s reply. 

Now. Where  _ would  _ Drift and Hot Rod have gone? The trees didn’t look any less strange and wild for having stopped to rest here for a bit. Recalling that Hound had said there was a way to observe the rebel camp further up the rocky trail into the mountains, Ratchet guessed they might have gone that way. Even if they hadn’t climbed all the way up — something Hound had said would take the rest of the daylight joors — it was a good direction to begin looking for a better camping spot.

The “trail” Hound had pointed out wasn’t so much a real trail as a line of broken and trampled crystals and stone, hopefully made by cy-buck and not anything more ferocious or monstrous. Turbowolves weren’t the only demons hiding in the wilderness!

No, that wasn’t right. Wolves weren’t demons  _ at all.  _ A demon might take the form of a turbowolf, but the creatures themselves were no more inherently evil than a mech who used natural magic was inherently a servant of the Destroyer.

Ratchet snorted at his own thoughts. Reordering his thinking was important, but it wouldn’t do to forget that there was a difference between “evil” and “dangerous”. A non-demonic wolf could still do him serious harm, and he’d still just as soon not run across one alone. Not even one of Hound’s pack.

He hadn’t walked far before he saw Tizzy standing watch under an outcrop of rock. Ratchet turned and headed that way, spotting a splash of orange plating around the other side of the rocks. Hot Rod, and in his arms, Drift. The small clearing they were in did look like it had potential as a campsite, sheltered on one side by the outcrop as it was, though the hard, rocky ground wouldn’t be any more comfortable to recharge on than the broken crystals under the trees had been. Hand on Tizzy’s head, Ratchet hesitated to step forward and announce his presence though. He wasn’t at the right angle to see Drift’s face, but the way he was curled into Hot Rod’s remarkably tender embrace made it clear he needed the comfort.

But spying was worse than interrupting, so Ratchet let out a soft cough through his vents. “Excuse me?”

He politely didn’t watch while they scrambled to untangle themselves. “Ratchet!”

“Last I checked. I came to tell you that Hound’s awake. He confirmed the prince is in the camp, but it’s going to take a while to relay everything else and make any plans. Did you find a spot for us to camp?”

“Yeah, uh.” Drift pointed a little further up the trail. “There’s actually a really defensible spot just up there. It’s fairly steep going, but I think the ponies can make it if we’re careful.”

“Good thing we chose them for surefootedness and steadiness, right?” Hot Rod chimed in.

“A very good thing. Let’s get them up there then, while we still have the light.”

“Yeah.” “Sure!” 

Both guards trotted ahead of Ratchet back to where the princess was. She looked up when she heard them coming. Her expression was expectant. “Were you successful?”

“Yup! Provided the ponies can make it,” Hot Rod said with full confidence, practically strutting like he was personally responsible for finding their awesome new campsite. Ratchet couldn’t tell if that was just his personality, or if he was doing it to draw attention away from any lingering melancholy of Drift’s. “We’re going to take care of that now.”

“We’ll all take care of it,” Arcee declared, getting to her feet. “That way we won’t have to go over anything twice.”

Even working together, it still took them awhile. The path up was indeed steep at points, and it was only possible to lead one pony up at a time. Hound and his wolf left to go hunting rather than helping, which was fine. It was easier without them, in fact, because the ponies weren’t as nervous without the wolf nearby.

Both Hot Rod and Drift inquired about Silverstreak. Arcee hadn’t gotten much more detail from Hound in the time it had taken Ratchet to fetch them, but him being there and not-bleeding was a relief to them too. 

“We’ll get him out of there,” Hot Rod promised. “It’s just a matter of finding the right strategy.”

“And having a plan for whatever his full condition is when we get to him,” Arcee said soberly. “He could be unable to walk, or transform, or—”

“Shh,” Drift stopped her. “We all know it won’t have been easy on him, but he’s strong. Whatever they’ve done, we’ll get him out and get him through it. He’s a strong mech, with a strong will.”

“‘Not delicate,’ his sister would say,” Hot Rod said, and something about that brought a hint of a smile to Arcee’s face.

“They do have a certain strength in common,” she agreed fondly. 

Their new campsite was roughly shaped like a wobbly oval. There were “walls” of rock that kept anyone from climbing up this far any other way except by the trail they’d used. They could hold out for a short time here, if necessary. The rock wall of the mountain even curved outward over their campsite somewhat, giving them a shallow overhang to protect them from rain and arrows. There wasn’t much to burn, meaning the rebels’ alchemist fire trick wouldn’t work well here, and what shrubby crystals there were they tied the ponies next to so they could graze. The trail, if a trail it even was at this point, continued further, up into the mountains, if they needed to retreat.

Tarps and rations came out, and they settled in a circle. So close to the rebel camp, they didn’t dare light a fire lest the smoke attracted attention. Drift sat close enough to Hot Rod for their legs to touch, and Tizzy curled up on his other side. He looked warm like that, but also a little distant.

Ratchet tried, but couldn’t leave it alone. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, Ratchet.” Drift smiled, and it didn’t look too wan. “Just some things to think about.”

What else could he say to that? It wasn’t his place to pry. “Alright.”

Arcee drank her fuel moodily. She was holding herself together, but not without visible effort. Kizzy went over to her and rested his head on her knee, and she made no move to shoo him away.

No one heard Hound’s approach when he returned. One nanoklik he wasn’t there, then the next he was. The large wolf wasn’t with him this time; instead, it was once again the mother hound at his side.

“I’ve been wondering what their names are,” Drift said as they took their places in the circle, nodding to the mother hound.

“She is mother,” Hound said simply. 

Ratchet frowned. That didn’t seem like much of a name, really.

“And the wolves?” Drift pressed. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“Not rude for a mech,” Hound said, completely unoffended. “Pack don’t have names though. No need.”

“What do you call each other then?” Hot Rod asked.

“Call mother, mother. She call us pups. Fast runner, dark armor, quiet steps…” Hound shuffled his plating in a very canine sort of shrug. “Don’t need names.” 

Ratchet was as astonished as the others. No names? But  _ how…? _ How could Hound even conceive of his pack without names? He still recognized his own name — he made  _ puns _ with his own name! — so how did it even work that he hadn’t given the pack names?

Something must have shown in his face or field. “I call,” Hound elaborated, “say, ‘I am here. Who is near?’ Pack call back ‘I am here’. Every call, every scent different.”

“Don’t you ever need to talk about someone who isn’t there though? Like if, I don’t know,” Hot Rod fumbled for an example, “if someone went missing and you needed to find them?”

“Can hear missing from calls, from… chorus?” Hound tried out the word. 

“But—!”

“It must work for them,” Drift said, more willing to accept the answer even though it was clear he didn’t quite understand either. “Otherwise they would do it differently.”

“But it doesn’t make sense!”

“You said that about Praxan, too.”

“Because it didn’t make sense either. Then we met Ricochet,” Hot Rod pouted, “and Praxan was the easiest thing in the world by comparison.”

“Maybe we’ll run into something that makes even less sense than this, and you’ll gain some miraculous understanding then,” Arcee said sharply, her limited ability to tolerate non-mission related conversation once again reaching its breaking point. “Tell us about the camp, and Silverstreak.”

“Will,” Hound promised, then, slowly and carefully, like this wasn’t something he could do easily anymore, he began drawing out the rebel camp in the dirt. His optics narrowed in concentration, and he kept growling, erasing, and re-drawing things. Still, even though he kept changing their placement, Ratchet could make out the familiar shapes of tents and fires.

Arcee fidgeted but otherwise was pretty patient given what was at stake. Hot Rod and Drift passed a couple of whispered speculations back and forth but didn’t interrupt Hound’s progress.

Finally, when Hound was done, there were a total of fifteen tents arranged into two large clusters around two large fires. “Prey— ponies,” Hound said, pointing to a group of figures close to the river that Ratchet had not been able to identify. “Things — metal, lightning, and fuel things,” he pointed to two more vague areas on the map. “Under blankets.”

“Much closer to two dozen opponents than one,” Drift amended his earlier guess. “Maybe as many as three, depending on how tightly packed they are in those tents.”

“Where are they holding Silverstreak?”

“This one,” Hound said, pointing to one tent next to the fire in the larger cluster of tents. “Him. And other hound. There are,” he counted out on his fingers, “four who go there much, but nest only for one. Mother mate with hound so can stay. Hawk-mech thinks is funny.”

Drift frowned. “Hawk-mech?”

“The Vosk flyers,” Arcee said, frowning for a different reason. “Or at least one of them. Damn. If they’re keeping him in the center of their camp, there’s no way we’ll be able to reach him by stealth.”

“Only one ‘nest’ in the tent with him means only one guard on him inside though,” Hot Rod pointed out. “And the turbohound.”

Ratchet glanced over at Kizzy and Tizzy. An angry turbohound in close quarters was still a significant opponent. “You said there were four mechs who were visiting him frequently,” he said, turning back to Hound. “Can you describe them?”

“Hawk-mech,” Hound said with a frown of concentration. “And other hawk-mech. Two scents. Pack leader mech. Pack mother mech… ” He broke off with a growl of frustration. “Don’t know how else to describe.” 

Drift took a stab at interpreting. “So both Vosk mechs are there, and the… mechs in charge, I guess, whoever’s leading them and his second, have been spending time with the prince.”

Hound barked. “Yes! Pack leader mech is very big. Smells… like dark spaces, killing, and lightning. Pack mother mech is tall and thin. Smells like bird and lightning.”

That sounded perfectly frightening and confusing to Ratchet. The vague, scent-based descriptions didn’t seem to mean much to the others either. “A big bruiser and a mage of some sort are my guesses,” Hot Rod said after a moment. “Or strategist.”

“And, in all likelihood, a perfectly capable warrior,” Arcee said, looking down at her own slight frame. “I doubt very much that there’s a single mech or femme in that camp who isn’t an accomplished fighter. It would be nice to know what this lightning smell on the mechs and their supplies is though.”

Hound wrinkled his nasal ridge. “Lightning scent is… You,” he pointed to Arcee, then to Hot Rod, “and you,” then Ratchet, “and you, and I. You,” he pointed at Drift, “have no lightning scent.”

“Me?” Drift looked around the circle. “I’m the  _ only  _ one who doesn’t?”

“We’ll just have to figure out what makes you so special then,” Hot Rod joked.

“Later,” Arcee said. “We need to finish going over the camp first.” 

Hound waited for a beat, missing the social cue for him to continue. Then he realized why everyone was looking at him and bent back over the drawing. “There is nests for two or three in each tent, and many ponies. Many turbohounds that roam free. Pack leader and pack mother nest in biggest tent,” he pointed to the tent next to the one Silverstreak was being kept in. “There are tables and… book?” he tried the word.

“Like,” Hot Rod fished out his spellbook, “this?”

Hound reached over and thumbed over the pages. “Like this part.”

“Flimsy,” Ratchet gave him the word he was looking for. “The sheets are flimsies. The whole thing together with the outside is a book.”

“Flimsies. Big tent has lots.”

“Interesting. Whoever’s running this camp is no slouch then,” Arcee said before letting out a noise of frustration. “In which case, we’re in for an even more difficult fight. This group will be well supplied and organized, not a starving, disorganized rabble. They may even know how to run a proper search pattern.”

“Don’t think can win fight against this pack,” Hound said quietly.

“I’m not leaving without my bonded.” Arcee was so tense she looked like she was about to snap just like the prince’s bowstring. “Not without even trying!”

“Recognizing the likelihood that I’ll get yelled at for bringing this up…” Hot Rod trailed off, silently asking permission to continue.

Arcee narrowed her optics. “Speak,” she snapped, making no promises about not yelling.

“Last time, when your betrothed was captured, the three of us went up against just  _ one  _ possessed warrior and she wiped the beach with us —  _ while  _ fighting under the handicap of not actually wanting to kill us. Yes, we’re stronger now, and yes, there’s a few more of us here this time, but not enough to survive an assault on a camp like that.”

Arcee growled. “Acknowledged,” she said tersely, without yelling. “I suggest we come up with another plan then because I’m  _ not leaving him behind.” _

“What about the river?” Drift jumped in. “Are there patrols— uh, mechs walking around without talking much, looking for danger,” he tried to describe what a mech on patrol might look like to Hound, “along the river?”

“Some mechs stand by the river, throw rocks, wander away.”

That didn’t sound like mechs on patrol. Drift must have agreed. “We can maybe sneak in from the river after nightfall…”

“Not unless we have Kaonex frame-twins who like swimming,” Hot Rod scoffed. “That still leaves us sneaking through the thickest part of the camp near the fire, and you see this paint job?” He gestured to the orange and yellow flames painted across his chest. “This paint job does not sneak!”

Hound let out a yip of laughter. “All the not sneak. You step as loud as your colors.”

“None of us are equipped for stealth,” Arcee agreed with regret. “We  _ look _ like an official negotiating party from Iacon.”

“Except for the wolf-mech,” Hot Rod teased. 

_ “I _ can sneak,” Hound teased back.

“So you sneak,” Ratchet said, struck with sudden inspiration, “while we create a diversion. You just said it, your highness — we look like a negotiating party. Why don’t we hail them and say we’ve come to negotiate the prince’s return while Hound spirits him out of camp?”

“Or, and perhaps this is a dumb suggestion, but,” Drift said, raising his hand like a student who hadn’t waited to be called on to speak, “what about actually trying to negotiate?”

“It wouldn’t work. Not after the amount of trouble they went to to capture him,” Arcess said harshly. “They targeted him specifically. I don’t know if it’s because he’s…”  _ young, _ she did not say, trailing off instead, “or because he’s Praxus’ prince, but either way they won’t give him up so easily. They will keep him until they have surety of whatever they want from m— from Iacon, and likely from Praxus as well. They may not be demons, but…” 

That did not make them good mechs.

“If we walk into that camp and lay down our weapons to parlay, I don’t think we’ll be walking out again,” she finished with finality, and Ratchet bowed his head. As Primus willed.

“So… Distraction, while the wolf mech does the rescue,” Hot Rod prompted.

It was the best plan anyone had come up with so far, and the Prime-Ascendant was ready to pounce on it. “Yes. We’ll do it that way.” She leaped up, obviously thinking to get to it right now, but looking from the map scratched in the dirt to the sky proved there was no time before nightfall. She hissed. “Iacon would never negotiate at night…” She whirled on Hound. “Could —  _ would _ you please keep an optic on him, make sure they don’t hurt him overnight…”

“Mother hound welcome with other pack. Will need to sleep some for later sneaking, but yes. Keep self safe, we stand watch.”

It took Ratchet a klik to puzzle through that, but Arcee was already nodding. “Yes. Anything.”

Ratchet prayed nothing would happen overnight, because he had the terrible suspicion that if Hound did say Silverstreak was being hurt or menaced, Arcee would rush down there, damn the consequences.

“Same watches as last cycle?” Hot Rod asked. “When we turn in, that is. Since we’re stuck up here tonight, we can take the time to hash out a few different scenarios.”

They did spend some time doing that, mostly for what to do if Silverstreak was injured and how to defend their campsite from the rebels if/when they realized the prince was missing and came after them. If the distraction didn’t work, there really wasn’t much else they could do except attempt to fight their way in and out. Ratchet hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but had to admit it was likely if things dragged out too long.

“Can signal when you should leave,” Hound told them. “Special bark for when we get away, other bark for if we can’t get packmate out.” He barked two different ways to demonstrate.

Ratchet couldn’t really tell them apart, but Drift nodded. “Let me hear again.”

Hound made both sounds again.

“Got it.”

Well, good. Drift could be able to interpret the signal then. They still sounded the same to Ratchet, though perhaps Arcee was able to differentiate them too. She had an intense look of concentration on her face like she was committing them to memory. “We’ll try to draw as many of the rebels as possible into our conversation so you have fewer to work around,” she said, even though that would mean more for them to escape from if things went south.

“Time to rest?” Hot Rod asked when a klik went by without anyone adding anything else. “We can get close to a full night’s rest if we go to sleep now.”

“Go ahead,” Arcee said before getting up and doing the exact opposite. Ratchet watched her pace agitatedly around the camp, hoping she’d settle once the last of the light faded. 

“You’re still welcome to join us,” Drift offered softly from where he and Hot Rod were arranging their tarps around Kizzy and Tizzy in a mostly smooth depression in the rocks. Hound had picked another spot further away from the ponies, a kind choice since the black wolf had once again materialized from the trees to curl up beside him protectively while the mother hound headed back to the rebel’s camp. 

“I couldn’t,” Ratchet said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate with the princess—”

“The princess says ‘sleep with them’,” Arcee cut in, shutting down his argument. “‘Us’, even. We’re higher up and more exposed here than we were last night, and we can’t risk a fire. You’ll need the warmth.”

“I…” Ratchet didn’t have a good comeback. Waking up covered in frost hadn’t been fun, and he wouldn’t be any use to them in the morning if he froze himself again tonight. “Yes, your highness.”

Hound barked out a laugh but didn’t explain what he found funny as Ratchet pulled his tarp over to the pile of mechs and dogs. They helped him arrange himself around their frames, tucking the tarp in so that he was both covered and wasn’t lying directly on the rock.

It was a lot warmer like this, he had to admit. It still wasn’t precisely comfortable though, and he wasn’t sure how well he’d actually be able to sleep. 

He shouldn’t have worried. After another long day of demanding physical activity and the cathartic but emotionally draining confession, it wasn’t long at all before sleep stole over him.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t dream.

.

.

.

In the morning, Arcee once again insisted on rushing through the shortest possible iteration of dawn prayers. Despite their brevity, Ratchet felt more connected to Primus than he had for vorns. Instead of doubting the purity of the light or his worthiness to receive it, he was finally able to welcome it in his spark. He hadn’t done anything wrong; he’d just misunderstood, as mortals were wont to do. Primus hadn’t abandoned or punished Hound — he’d let him go, free to live the life he was meant for.

Seeing Hound rolling around with the wolf and his mother hound, playing while the others prayed, there was no denying how happy being out here made him. Ratchet could no longer imagine him in a city. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been able to imagine it, but definitely not anymore.

“Alright,” Arcee announced, while Ratchet hastily stowed his prayer beads on his pony. They would be staying here, safe from predators thanks to one of Hound’s pack, while they went to the rebels and tried to “negotiate”. “Let’s go.” 

The path was easier to traverse without the ponies, though easier was a relative term. Hound outpaced them all pretty much right away, disappearing into the forest before they even reached the tall trees. That was fine since he could use the extra time to sneak into position, but it did also emphasize how much slower they were on the rocks.

They had to pause at the bottom before continuing, checking themselves and each other over to make sure they were presentable. A delegation coming over this kind of terrain wouldn’t be pristine, but they couldn’t show up a complete mess either. Ratchet wasn’t sorry they’d be driving more slowly the rest of the way to the camp to avoid further scuffs and scrapes.

Ratchet felt… tense, driving toward what he knew were two or three dozen rebels. At least three of them were demon— spirit possessed, and that was making fear coil in his fuel tanks. Even if those mechs weren’t demons, they were still powerful warriors, and he was no fighter.

When they came close to hailing distance, Arcee had them all slow even further and position themselves in a non-offensive formation. Their watchers were likely to spot them before they reached the camp, and there would be the first test: would they take word of a negotiating party back to the others, or just start firing arrows at them? Either was possible, and even if one sentry let them pass and sent back word of their arrival, that didn’t mean that the next wouldn’t just fire on them. 

The tension started to spread throughout Ratchet’s frame, making his axels ache and—

“Stop!” someone called, and a trio of mechs melted out of the forest with drawn and nocked bows.

Ratchet complied immediately, as did the others. Arcee addressed the mechs without transforming. “Greetings. We are a diplomatic delegation from Iacon, here to negotiate the return of Prince Silverstreak.”

There was a whispered conversation that Ratchet couldn’t follow, then he heard the sound of an approaching engine weaving through the trees behind rebels.

“Transform and stand,” the spokesmech said slowly in heavily accented Iaconi.

Arcee transformed first, with Drift and Hot Rod in perfect sync a few nanokliks after her. Ratchet was last, clutching his staff awkwardly to his chest and doing his best not to let his stance show how nervous he was.

“Weapons on the ground,” the mech demanded.

“We’re not asking for entry to your camp,” Arcee countered, making no move to disarm herself. “We will meet with your leaders and discuss the situation on neutral ground.”

“You and what army,  _ laskura?” _ the spokesmech drawled, the Kaonex diminutive for an unbonded femme making Arcee bristle angrily.

“The one stationed in the forest at a distance that we might give diplomacy a chance before further violence becomes necessary,” she said so believably that Ratchet never would have doubted her if he hadn’t known it was a lie. “As Imperial Prince Silverstreak’s  _ bonded,”  _ she emphasized the word, “I have the authority to make and accept offers on Iacon’s behalf.”

“That so?” The spokesmech sneered and withdrew, though the others and their arrows didn’t waver. Ratchet tried not to fidget as he looked around and saw more drawn arrows aimed at them. If the order came for them to attack, there would be no dodging them all. 

Above them, an engine roared, fading into the distance. One of the Vosk wizards? It took everything Ratchet had not to crane his head back and search the skies.

After the longest kliks of Ratchet’s life, the spokesmech returned. He appeared to be alone, but Kizzy and Tizzy tensed, and Arcee’s optics narrowed. “Will you approach the camp?” he asked.

“We will not. Tell your leader,” she looked into the forest over the mech’s shoulder, “to come forward and speak with us here.”

The spokesmech disappeared again. The turbohounds didn’t calm, and their continued agitated state fueled the anticipation. 

Finally, another figure — a massive mech, grey and black with faded hazard stripes still visible on his frame — stepped out of the forest, calmly looking them over with red optics as intense as the heart of a forge. Another mech followed in his shadow, a tall, spindly flier cradling a cyberhawk in his hands. He was blue, but not the same blue as the jet who had attacked them at the garrison. This must be the “pack mother mech” Hound had mentioned, but Ratchet’s attention was quickly drawn to the third mech who revealed himself. Here was the familiar blue jet, proud stripes on his wings and all of the features of a high caste mech from Vos visible on his frame up close. And there, around his neck, a simple holy symbol: the Spark of Primus.

So there  _ were  _ clerics working with the rebels. Ratchet stared in shock. That symbol was genuine, and the mech didn’t have the aura of a dark priest.

The others, however, were all staring at the leader. Something about him had Arcee’s narrowed optics flaring wide in surprise and recognition, and Hot Rod and Drift both had similar reactions. Ratchet didn’t know if he should be more or less worried that they knew — or at least knew  _ of _ — the individuals in front of them.

“I am Megatron,” the large mech rumbled with veiled politeness. “Soundwave and Laserbeak,” the tall, blank-faced flier gave a shallow bow and his pet squawked as Megatron introduced them, “and Thundercracker.” The Vosk mech also bowed, but never took his hard, cold optics off of the Prime-Ascendant. “Cleric of Primus of the Guiding Hand,” Megatron tacked on, which was a dumb distinction in Ratchet’s opinion. Primus was Primus, the God of All. Belief in servitor gods, even in the destroyer, did not change Primus’ status in the optics of Iacon.

“Arcee, Princess and Prime-Ascendant of Iacon, Paladin of Primus of the Primordial Duo,” Arcee replied, humoring him in his pedantics. She did not offer anyone else’s name. “The Imperial Prince is my bondmate. Let me see him.”

“Your bondmate is safe,” Megatron said, far more intimidating than reassuring. The archers, similarly, lowered their bows but did not un-nock their arrows. “We have taken care not to injure him, and have no interest in doing so. I invite you to our camp to see him for yourself.”

“With no guarantee of my own safety?” Arcee shook her head. “Do you have proof of his?”

“And what would constitute ‘proof’?” Megatron asked, folding his arms across his massive chest. “I presume you don’t want me to start chopping pieces off just to show you.”

“Of course not,” Arcee snapped, then, more calmly, told him, “Your sworn word will suffice.”

“That I will grant easily,” the massive mech rumbled. “As well as my word granting your safety, if you wish to see him.”

“Megatron is a mech of honor,” Thundercracker added, unbidden. A mech of honor, perhaps, but something about the huge rebel was making Ratchet’s plating crawl. How could Thundercracker not feel it? “Primus will vouch for his promise.”

To the visible shock of most of the mechs surrounding them (and, Ratchet suspected, the disguised shock of the rest), Arcee accepted that without further argument. “And He will hold you to it.”

“Very well. Please come see the Imperial Prince, and we will discuss Iacon’s continued involvement in Kaonex affairs.”

“By which I presume you mean the cessation of Iacon’s involvement in Kaonex affairs.”

“Well, yes.” Megatron looked at Arcee curiously. “I would have preferred that all of this was unnecessary, but you have not been reenforcing your border with purely  _ defensive _ troops. I do not know what Senator Decimus and his ilk offered you, but as I have no diplomatic channels with which to make a counteroffer, a young hostage was the best I could do.”

“Senator Decimus appealed to Iacon to assist him in putting down a demon-fueled rebellion. While Iacon has no interest in the internal politics of its neighbors, the Primacy cannot ignore the invocation of demons.”

“There are no demons here!” Thundercracker hissed, his wings going up in offense. “Only a just cause all followers of Primus should be  _ helping,  _ not fighting or ignoring! Iacon is nothing but—”

“Thundercracker.”

“—a collection of self-righteous pre—”

_ “Thundercracker!” _

“—tend…” The Vosk cleric trailed off, chagrined. “Frag.”

His passion was understandable but hardly professional. Drift and Hot Rod were doing a much better job remaining impassive, though Ratchet was close enough to Hot Rod to feel his quickly contained amusement at Thundercracker getting reprimanded. Ratchet just hoped his own expression wasn’t giving anything away.

It helped that, aside from the single falsehood about having reinforcements, Arcee wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true.

“We were compelled to respond with an investigation,” she said, still speaking to Megatron while addressing Thundercracker’s outburst. “The initial reports came back confirming demonic involvement,  _ however,”  _ she held up a hand before anyone could protest that, “the Imperial Prince and I were conducting a second, more thorough investigation in the course of our tour of the border — an investigation you interrupted by kidnapping him.”

“For which I am extremely sorry,” Megatron inserted smoothly. “I had only a few options available to me. But come, we can continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable.”

That was exactly the opposite of what they wanted to be doing. They’d succeeded in drawing quite the crowd, but that only made it clear that they wouldn’t be able to fight their way back out if they followed Megatron into the camp. Their only option was to make a break for it here, and they were rapidly approaching the point where stalling would have to become fighting if they were going to get away. But Hound still hadn’t given the signal… had he?

“I don’t suppose,” Arcee said, sounding remarkably relaxed but not particularly hopeful, “that you would believe I’m convinced there is no demonic involvement here, return my bonded to me, and allow us to return to the First City to make the case to the Prime and the Council of Archbishops to end all incursions of our forces over the border?”

For a moment, Megatron looked interested despite himself. 

Then the sound of an engine overhead returned, steadily drawing closer until it cut off with a  _ vop! _ and the purple flier that had captured Silverstreak appeared magically next to Megatron. He babbled something — Vosk or Kaonex, Ratchet couldn’t understand either way — and a smile spread across the rebel leader’s face. It wasn’t a nice smile, smug and showing jagged, pointed teeth. “How about I show you that your bonded is just fine, you go back to Iacon and convince the Prime and whoever else to end your interference in our affairs, and I’ll return the prince when you open proper diplomatic channels?” he said, the counteroffer firm and confident.

_ Uh oh.  _ They were busted, weren’t they? 

“No, thank you,” Arcee said with a wry smile of her own. “I meant what I said, but I know a trap when I hear one.” And with that, she went for her sword. “Go!”

Ratchet dove for cover. A billow of misty cool air rushed outward from Hot Rod’s spread hands as the bowmen pulled up their weapons and fired. Ratchet couldn’t see where any of the arrows landed, but he could hear them zinging through the air, missing their suddenly obscured targets.

The plan for this part of the diversion, if it could be called a plan, was to draw their pursuers into the forest, give them the slip, and return to their campsite. Simple in concept, but not so easy to actually execute. Ratchet started moving from one tree to the next, maintaining as much cover as he could while building a rough mental map of where everyone was around him. Avoid the enemies, keep an optic on Arcee, Drift, and Hot Rod, and pray to Primus that Hound had gotten Silverstreak.

A strange sound echoed through the mist and Megatron growled in rage. He rushed forward, optics glowing hellishly as he drew the massive battle axe from his back. The mist streamed around his armor like smoke. 

_ Demon!  _

No. Not a demon, Ratchet rationalized as he ran. Possessed, certainly, but apart from Megatron actually remembering he had a weapon, Ratchet could honestly say he’d seen this before back at the—  _ slag.  _ Remembering the garrison reminded him that there were more possessed warriors with this group, and they didn’t know if they’d stayed back at camp or were about to come barreling after them too. 

They needed to get away! Now!

With a howl of arcane words, Megatron lifted a foot and slammed it down into the ground. The shockwave traveled outward, breaking stone into shards and loose rocks into gravel. Through the disturbed mist, Ratchet saw Arcee wobble, struggling to catch her balance. 

Drift must have seen it too, because he whistled and sent Kizzy and Tizzy leaping forward to hound Megatron’s legs and knees. Despite their ferocity, the rebel leader simply ignored them. Was Megatron unable to feel pain in his possessed state? Or was his plating just too thick for the dogs to damage, regardless?

A stray kick from one of those huge feet could really hurt the dogs though, which had Ratchet sticking close enough to keep an optic on them rather than sprinting all out to get some distance between himself and Megatron. Not that there was a whole lot he could realistically do in this scenario. There was no time for popping dents and applying bandages when you were running for your life!

Through the sound-muffling effect of the mist, Ratchet heard Thundercracker and the purple flier’s voices somewhere nearby. They and the archers were like ghosts to Ratchet’s vision, blurred and obscured by the spell. Arcee, however, was close enough to see clearly as she blocked Megatron’s massive great axe with her gladius. Herweapon glowed with Primus’ light, holding the fearsome mech’s advance long enough for Hot Rod to slide in under them and swing his own sword, which let off a blaze of fire when it connected. 

Megatron howled. It wasn’t in pain, despite the scorched plating and the stench of burning plastics resulting from Hot Rod’s spell. 

And there was still a strange sound, almost but not exactly music, weaving through the forest. The high, not-quite sweet song of a cyberhawk, Laserbeak, joined the drone and they all shivered. The sound — Ratchet didn’t know how, but the  _ sound _ — felt at least as solid as Hot Rod’s mist, and it clung like a solid, sticky thing and dragged at his armor. Ratchet started to shake—

_ “For Silverstreak!” _ Arcee shouted, sweeping away the effect of the clinging, inexplicably terrifying sound with her ringing voice.

A white and red blur — Drift — slashed by a nanoklik later, eliciting another roar and little else from Megatron. The rebel leader ignored him as he had his dogs, striking out instead at Hot Rod, who blocked with a shield of lightning. Only Arcee’s blows actually seemed to phase him, though even in the face of her smites Megatron still showed no pain.

Engaged as they were, they continued to retreat. Since the mist followed its caster, it was hard for Ratchet to judge the distance they’d gone. 

Then another rebel was suddenly right there, appearing out of the mist right beside him. Ratchet whirled and, completely by accident, whacked him in the shoulder with the staff he’d all but forgotten in his hands. The rebel looked almost as surprised as Ratchet was and tossed aside his bow and drew a dagger. “They’re here!” he called, and Ratchet caught an arrow with his forearm as he jumped back out of dagger-range. 

“Slagging—!” Ratchet bit back any further curses, saving his breath for running. At the very least, he needed to move before the archers could get off another round. He had no aspirations as a pin cushion!

Someone was flying overhead again. Trying to see through the mist from above? It didn’t matter, Ratchet was still in the thick of it and could barely keep track of the others so he wouldn’t lose them as he tried to escape the dagger-wielding rebel. He struck out again with his staff, this time much more deliberately, and succeeded in hitting the mech solidly enough to dent him. Arrows and spells in at least three different voices zinged through the air around him, all underpinned by Megatron’s growls and roars. It was so overwhelming he only realized he’d lost track of Hot Rod somewhere in the chaos when he heard the fire magus let out a peal of shrill, uncontrolled laughter. Battling the other spellcaster? The one with the bird? Ratchet couldn’t see.

The dagger in the rebel’s hand glanced off his armor as he tried to break free. The blows weren’t debilitating, though the crack that appeared in his windshield would cause problems eventually. Another swing of his staff knocked the mech back a step, and Ratchet used that little bit of distance to rush away into the obscuring mist. A few more arrows clattered to the ground uselessly behind him, and Ratchet felt more than a little useless himself. Where was Hot Rod? He couldn’t hear him laughing anymore, or indeed anything, as the strange humming almost-song filling the forest  _ screeed _ up into a brief, high pitched, metal-shattering note before resuming. 

His audios had only just recovered when—

“Princess!” Drift’s voice rang out and Ratchet looked up to see the huntmaster, the white of his paint blending into the mist so it was nearly invisible, leap to interpose himself between Megatron and Arcee—

“Drift! No!” 

The giant war axe swung down and bit deeply into Drift’s plating. He screamed, a terrible, visceral sound, but Megatron only huffed with annoyance and shook Drift off of his weapon before kicking his twitching form away from him. 

“Ratchet! Get him out of here! Get away!” Arcee held her sword up high, once again commanding it to glow brighter with divine power.

“On it!” Ratchet shouted back, already scrambling his way over to where Drift had fallen. Parts of his shoulder armor had detached from the force of the blow, and the blade had opened a tremendous gash in his chest. “Oh, Primus.”

“Ra… tchet…” Drift gasped out, his optics flickering from pain and shock. There was a  _ lot  _ of energon on the ground beneath him.

“I’ve got you.” Away. Arcee had said to get away — because she was casting something? Because staying close to Megatron was a bad idea? Because she didn’t realize how badly Drift was hurt and thought there was something to be done for him? Ratchet swallowed a curse as he scooped Drift up into his arms. Out of line of sight, out of area of effect. That much he could accomplish. “We’re not going far,” there was a massive crystal stump a short distance to their left that loomed visibly even in the mist, “just hang on.”

Laying him down at the roots of the broken crystal didn’t make things look any better. Ratchet could hear the hounds barking and growling, and he wondered fleetingly if Arcee or Hot Rod could command Tizzy and Kizzy, or what would happen to them if… No. Drift would be fine, he had to be. Under some cover and sheltered slightly from the battle, Ratchet detached the first aid kit from his armor. Most of his supplies were still at camp but surely he could at least stop the bleeding…

There was so, so much of it.

“One vessel at a time,” he muttered, pinching off and slapping patches on each line as he worked his way in. “Please, Primus, don’t let it have severed the main fuel line.” 

It was a terrible wound. Ratchet’s hands were quickly covered completely with Drift’s fluids. The deeper he went the less hope he had, but he couldn’t stop praying—

It had severed the main fuel line.

“Primus.” Ratchet bowed his head. The cut had gone all the way through. He pulled the two ends together, wrapping his hand around them. The flow of energon slowed but continued to bubble up through his fingers. None of the patches in his first aid kit could handle this level of pressure. Helplessness swamped him. There was nothing he could do for this sort of injury. Drift would be dead in kliks. 

The huntmaster had fallen silent, venting heavily. His optics were no longer flickering and had shut off entirely. Conserving energy, or fading… Ratchet didn’t know. It didn’t even matter; Drift would never wake.

Once he could have done this. It would have been trivial, the sort of spell even initiates were able to cast, though only battlefield clerics asked Primus for it routinely. In memory and regret, Ratchet uselessly traced out the symbols of Primus, fate, and healing over Drift’s hands, spark and helm with his free hand, whispering his way through the orison to stabilize a dying patient. 

The surge of energy that followed on the final word was as familiar as it was surprising. Drift’s wounds didn’t magically knit themselves back together, but as Ratchet watched, the bleeding slowed — then  _ stopped. _

Drift didn’t stir; of course he didn’t. Ratchet had only asked that he  _ stop actively dying, _ not that he be healed. But… he  _ couldn’t _ heal. Not even with this simple prayer. He hadn’t healed a mech in four vorns… 

Hot Rod’s hand landing roughly on his shoulder made him look up from Drift’s horrific, but no longer immediately deadly, wound. “He safe to move?” the mage demanded. His flame-colored armor was scorched, bleeding in places, and covered in glittering magical particles that glowed when he moved, making it hard to hide even in this mist. 

“Yes,” Ratchet replied automatically. His voice sounded distant and thready to his own audios. “We can move him.”

“Good.” Hot Rod slid down into the depression between rootlets and started hefting Drift up, clearly expecting Ratchet to help. His sword should have gotten in the way of the maneuver, but the blade was gone. All that was left of the weapon was a stump of a hilt hanging off a loop of wire on his wrist. “We have less than a klik before big, scary and pissed off shakes off Arcee’s spell and once my mist drops those archers are going to get a lot more accurate. We need to be  _ gone.” _

Gone sounded good. Ratchet snapped his first aid kit back in place, snapped off the arrow still sticking out of his arm, and took the rest of Drift’s weight. He and Hot Rod weren’t too dissimilar in height so holding him between them wasn’t a challenge. “How long?”

“Two kliks,” Hot Rod said tersely. “But they know we’re at the center of the mist, so I need to drop it before we can do any hiding.”

Arcee and Drift’s hounds were backing away from Megatron, who was on his knees surrounded by chains of light, snarling hatefully. The mist closed around him as they retreated, washing him out of sight. No other rebels emerged to attack them, and soon even the droning not-quite-music petered out and stopped. 

The Prime-Ascendant spat out a curse when she turned to look at the three of them. “Is he—”

“Stable,” Ratchet told her, “but pretty badly torn up.”

Without another word, Arcee laid her hands over Drift’s chest. A thready and weak flash of energy flowed into him. Ratchet didn’t see any visible change in Drift’s condition, but close as he was to death, every little bit would help. “That's all I have left,” she said tersely when the spell ended, indicating she’d used the rest of her healing spells already on herself, Hot Rod, or even Kizzy and Tizzy. “We need to go.”

Ratchet carefully lifted Drift so he was securely in his arms, freeing Hot Rod to move without hindrance. Kizzy and Tizzy nuzzled their master worriedly but moved out of the way when Ratchet stood. “Ready.” 

A pair of engines roared overhead. Hot Rod paused, listening… then sent a spell shooting straight up out of the mist. Ratchet didn’t see it go off, but the engines both stuttered briefly and a nanoklik later a smattering of flaming strands of fiber rained down through the crystal branches.

“Run. That’s not going to stop them.”

No, and the mist still wasn’t stopping the arrows either. Ratchet heard the  _ flit, flit _ of another round striking the ground and trees around them, dangerously close. One hit his ankle, and he couldn’t help but shout in pain as the projectile lodged in the joint. It hurt terribly, but Ratchet forced himself to keep moving. He  _ had  _ to keep moving. He could only go so fast, burdened and injured as he was, but Ratchet pushed his frame for every last ounce of speed he could muster. 

Just in time. That ringing spell Thundercracker had used before ripped through the forest on their heels, cracking crystal with its sheer volume; they were just far enough ahead of it to avoid the worst of the brunt, but Hot Rod still stumbled as he clapped his hands over his audios, and both Tizzy and Kizzy howled, tripping over their own feet and nearly falling.

It hurt. It really hurt, but Ratchet wasn’t about to drop Drift. He powered through, gritting his teeth until the sound faded and he stopped staggering. 

“You guys keep running,” Hot Rod’s voice floated through the mist. “Cover’s coming down.”

“But what—”

“Trust me! Just keep running as fast and as quiet as you can!”

“Come on.” Arcee had been ahead of them, but now she dropped back closer to Ratchet. “He’s got this.”

Ratchet couldn’t remember discussing any plans for escaping the two Vosk spellcasters that involved leaving Hot Rod behind, but Arcee knew her guard’s capabilities better than he did. Either that or she just trusted the mage knew what he was doing. Ultimately it didn’t matter to Ratchet; the Prime-Ascendant had given him a command, and he had a patient to care for. He kept running, sticking to her heels as close as possible.

They stumbled blindly to the edge of the mist the instant it was supposed to disappear and the air… didn’t clear. The white mist continued to hang around them, but the… the clinging  _ wetness _ of it was gone. An illusion!

An illusion that darted away through the trees like they were still running at the center of it, leading their pursuers away. 

Ratchet would have congratulated Hot Rod on that bit of cleverness, but he wasn’t about to ruin it by shouting and giving away their real location.

The camp wasn’t objectively that far away, but it felt like it was all the way over the border. Running with an unconscious mech in his arms and arrow fragments grinding in his gears while flight engines roared overhead was  _ way  _ more stressful than driving slowly into a known trap! It was a distinct relief to find the bottom of the path leading up the mountain, though it also brought up the dilemma of how to climb it without the use of his hands.

Wordlessly, Arcee solved the problem by climbing a short way, then reaching down to haul Drift up so Ratchet could follow after her. 

They traded off carrying Drift, working their way up in increments while constantly checking behind and above them. The fliers would be running low on fuel and grounded before too long, but neither of them wanted to be their landing strip. And where was Hot Rod? When was he going to catch up? Despite the distance and the trees, Ratchet could hear Megatron still howling murderously.

Ratchet was busy looking behind them when Arcee stopped short, surprising him. He was about to ask her why, but then he saw for himself: the ledge their camp had been on should have been just ahead of them, but there was nothing there but a sheer drop down the mountain.

“This is…” Arcee trailed off. “It  _ can’t _ have disappeared!” She waved her hand in front of her, encountering nothing. “I don’t even see any rubble.”

Ratchet was as confused as she was. “If it didn’t fall, what else could have happened to it?”

“I’m not sure.” She crouched to prod at the air where the ground should have been. Her optics lit up in surprise. “It’s an illusion!” She climbed up onto the air and half of her disappeared. Her arms reappeared a nanoklik later to grab Drift, then vanished with him into nothingness.

Despite having her example, Ratchet still moved forward cautiously, feeling out into the air when he reached it for the ground that was supposed to be there — and found it. The illusion became washed out, faded and translucent, and he was able to follow Arcee the rest of the short distance to the now-hidden camp. She was struggling a little with Drift, so Ratchet took up the trailing end of his frame so they could work together to bring him around to the overhang.

Several sets of optics met theirs as they arrived. The ponies were all still there, tethered where they’d left them, and sitting against the rock wall of the mountain were Hound, the black wolf, the mother hound, and—

“Silverstreak!” 

Arcee didn’t drop Drift on Ratchet, but her handoff was awfully hasty, and she sprinted over to her bondmate to kneel beside him before the prince could even get to his feet.

“Arcee. Love.” His arms went around her immediately, hugging her tightly. She hugged back, pressing their foreheads together in a way that managed to be fierce in its intensity, but still gentle.

“Thank Primus,” Ratchet whispered, then shared a smile of gratitude with Hound when the mech came over to help him get Drift settled. “Were you hurt?”

“Some hurt,” Hound said with a concerned look at Drift’s mangled chest, “but not like him.”

No, neither he nor the prince looked like they’d taken anywhere near as bad an injury as Drift had. Both had visible scrapes, bumps, and dents, and someone had dug into Ratchet’s supply of bandages to wrap a pair of matching injuries on both Hound and the black wolf’s shoulders. 

Something nuzzled Ratchet’s hand. He looked down expecting Kizzy or Tizzy only to see the infantry hound, the one he’d lost during the battle outside the garrison. “Where did you come from?” The hound didn’t answer; he just gave him a quick lick before sniffing at Drift and walking away to stand beside the prince.

“Other hound,” Hound said distractedly as he examined Drift more closely. “I cannot heal this. Can heal some after next moonrise, but not all.”

“Drift is hurt?” Silverstreak didn’t let go of Arcee, but he was looking over at them now. “Will he be alright?”

“I hope so. I can’t do anything more for him this cycle either,” Arcee admitted. “All we can do is rest and pray he doesn’t take a turn for the worse before our magic is restored. The damage he took cannot be healed with a minor laying on of hands.”

“No, it can’t.” Ratchet stared down again at what should have been a fatal injury. It still could be fatal; Drift was alright for now, but he still needed powerful healing, the kind only the most powerful of clerics and paladins could cast — and only at their full power. Ratchet stroked one hand across the edge of the jagged tear in Drift’s chest. The gaping hole left him terribly vulnerable. He could all too easily freeze during the night before either Arcee or Hound could do anything for him. 

Ratchet’s hand stilled, then his finger tapped in thought. The magic to stabilize him had come to him against his every expectation. Would it come again now, if he called on it deliberately to heal?

So much had happened in the last few cycles, so much that hadn’t had a chance to settle fully in his processor. The core of his doubts though, the seed that had sprouted into his great crisis of faith… Whether the divination he had cast for Hound had failed due to mortal error or divine plan, Ratchet knew that Primus had not turned His back on such a kind spark. Hound was here now, healthy and whole. Primus or, or the  _ trees _ (for Primus’ sake!) had brought them together again at the right place and time for the Prime-Ascendant to pass judgment and confirm that there  _ was  _ goodness outside their faith, even in one so very, very different than they were. Hound  _ was _ a good person and he wasn’t a demon, and Ratchet had no more reason to doubt his god or his faith, only his own inadequacies…  _ Primus guide, protect and heal… _

He didn’t realize he’d offlined his optics until he felt Drift shift beneath his hands and had to turn them back on again to look.

“Hey, Ratchet,” Drift murmured.

“Hey yourself,” Ratchet said with a relieved rush of air. The younger mech was still hurt. The missing pieces of his shoulder armor were still gone, and there was still an ugly, ragged tear running down his chest, but the internal damage was almost completely restored. He wasn’t dying, and he was awake. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“No promises,” Drift groaned, wincing slightly as both Kizzy and Tizzy pushed their way past Ratchet to press themselves against him, wiggling their whole bodies with the force of their happy tail wags. “My duty is to the princess.”

“I can’t tell you not to do it, but I would rather not see you die for me,” Arcee said, a mixture of relief and surprise on her face. “Ratchet, you healed him.”

“I… did.” Ratchet still couldn’t quite believe it himself.

“You did?” Drift’s grimace gave way to a grin. “Really?”

“Really,” Silverstreak said, which had Drift’s optics flaring almost comically.

“Your highness!” He half-turned, half-let-his-head-fall to the side to look at him. “Thank Primus. I listened for Hound’s signal, but I couldn’t hear well enough once the fighting started.”

“Called one time,” Hound said with an indifferent shrug, “then we had fighting too.”

“Oh.” He’d been so adamant before… “I hope you didn’t have to kill any of them,” Ratchet said.

“Kill one, maybe two,” the wild mech answered, still indifferent. “Did not  _ hunt.” _

Ratchet wanted to follow up on that — what was the difference between killing and hunting? — but something tumbled into him from behind. Hot Rod squawked as he went sprawling across the campsite ground, thoroughly interrupting the conversation. “So, uh,” he looked up at gathered mechs and mechanimals who were all now staring at him. “I hope there’s another way out of these mountains because we are  _ not _ going back that way.”

“Are they following us?” Arcee asked.

“Not yet? But they’ll find—” Hot Rod winced as three loud notes from a horn of some sort echoed through the forest behind him. The sound faded and he continued. ”They’ll find the path up here sooner or later, and in the meantime they’ve spread out to form a line that we’re not going to be able to fight through. I’m tapped out, and Drift is— oh! You’re not dying anymore!” 

Drift chuckled. “Primus protects and heals.”

Hot Rod stuck his tongue out at him.

“Is another way.” Hound pointed up the trail, deeper into the mountains. “Is hard, goes up almost to the snow. Takes a long time. We will not get back to stone houses before the next moon-dark.”

“We’ll take it,” Arcee and Silverstreak said in tandem. They looked at each other and Arcee smiled while he giggled. “I don’t mind snow,” the prince continued. “It’s better than getting captured again, even if they didn’t… didn’t really hurt me. We can’t let them have that kind of leverage over Praxus and Iacon.”

“No, we can’t.” Arcee hugged him tightly again, pride mingling with concern in her field. She wasn’t relaxed by any means, but all the same she looked like a burden had lifted from her shoulders. “How long can we afford to delay?”

“Can stay here until morning,” Hound said confidently. “Hide-the-lair will hold that long.”

“It’s an impressive spell,” Arcee told him. “We can definitely use the rest and the chance to refresh our own magics. How badly hurt is everyone? You said they didn’t really hurt you,” she said to Silverstreak, “but that implies at least some damage, even before having to fight your way out.”

“Oh, no, I mean they really didn’t. Not physically, besides dragging me around and knocking me out a couple of times,” the prince explained. “They wouldn’t tell me anything though, no matter what or who I asked. Except for Megatron, Soundwave, and the two fliers, everyone ignored me when we got to the camp. I would have been completely alone if it wasn’t for him,” he nodded to the infantry dog, standing guard faithfully at his side. Silverstreak wrapped an arm around him in a hug. “Thundercracker liked him, and Skywarp liked making fun of Thundercracker about him, so they let him stay with me.” 

Arcee looked at him curiously. “I guess that means he’s yours, if you want him. Assuming no one objects.” No one did. The hound belonged to the Iacon army, and if the Prime-Ascendant wanted to give him to her bondmate there wasn’t anyone in either of their nations who could contest her. “Then it’s settled.”

The hound barked as if to seal the deal. Hound snicker-huffed and translated like the bark had been actual words. “He say his name is Lucky, and you are his.”

“Yay!” Silverstreak nuzzled Lucky’s brassy snout and got a lick to the face. 

“I thought you said dogs and wolves don’t use names,” Hot Rod complained.

Hound huffed again. “Name is for him,” he gestured to Silverstreak, “because he does not understand scent-howl not-name.”

“It would be nice if I could though, wouldn’t it? But you’re right, I don’t, so Lucky it is.”

“Still doesn’t make any sense,” Hot Rod muttered.

“You’re not going to keep going on about that, are you?” Drift asked, chuckling a bit weakly in Ratchet’s arms.

“I think we’ve strayed a bit from the princess’s question,” Ratchet said before Hot Rod could come up with a retort. “Drift, you’re definitely still hurt, but what about everyone else?”

Unsurprisingly, no one had gotten away unscathed. Hound and Silverstreak were the least damaged thanks to Hound having used his magic to heal them and the dogs earlier, but Ratchet had that crack in his windshield and a bunch of broken-off arrows sticking out of his plating, Hot Rod was still sporting scratches, scorch marks, and an arrow or two of his own, and Arcee still had dents and cuts she hadn’t managed to heal completely with her own magic. Luckily none of that needed more than cleaning and bandaging for the moment, which Ratchet was more than capable of doing — even for Drift, whose bandaging involved a lot more solder than everyone else’s.

“Rest,” Ratchet instructed him firmly when he was done, wrapping him up snuggly in a tarp to ward off the chill. “The rest of us will split the watch.”

“I’m sure I could still—”

“No.”

Drift pouted but wisely didn’t try to protest again. 

Ratchet sat down beside him, offering his warmth while simultaneously taking advantage of the warmth Kizzy and Tizzy provided, piled in with both of them. Nearby the prince and princess settled down together with Lucky while Hot Rod busied himself with little chores around the camp. 

Drift was quiet for long enough that Ratchet thought he had slipped into recharge, but then he heard him ask, softly, “Will you tell me what happened?”

“What…? Oh.” Ratchet sighed, then chuckled. “I told Arcee everything and she…” It sounded a little silly to summarize four vorns of doubt and its end in just a single sentence, but, “She said Hound was a good person in the optics of Primus.” That his choice to live with the wolves hadn’t damned him, that, “I didn’t fail him.”  _ Or you. _

“Really?” Ratchet couldn’t tell if Drift was more disbelieving or amused. “That’s it?”

If he hadn’t been injured, Ratchet would have hit him. “She is the  _ Prime-Ascendant. _ If, in defiance of everything the histories and scriptures say about people who decide to live with talking wolves and eat mechanimals, she says that Hound is not a demon, then—”

_ “I’m  _ not going to argue her authority, and I never meant to imply you would.” That dishonor belonged to those who argued that the wisdom and authority of Primus were bestowed singularly on the Prime upon Ascension, which was utterly ridiculous. How else could a Prime-Ascendant be identified if not by Primus’ presence alongside the spark before it ever left the ground? “It just sounds so simple compared to how profoundly you were suffering.”

No kidding. “I just could not reconcile what I knew in my spark to be true with the teachings of what is true in the optics of Primus. I thought I had failed him, that Primus had abandoned him, that…” Ratchet couldn’t continue past the static in his vocalizer. Even with the conflict resolved, it was not easy to put into words, much less speak of. “I,” he lowered his voice below a whisper, not even sure Drift could still hear him, but he couldn’t not say it, “I could not reconcile how Primus could embrace one would-be huntmaster and turn so decisively from another.”

Drift’s field brushed his supportively. “Well, I’m glad for you that you’ve found your reconciliation at last. And, selfishly, glad it happened when it did.” Ratchet felt a flicker of fear shiver through his field. “I knew what I was doing, jumping in the way of that axe, and I don’t regret my actions, but… Primus, I was  _ scared.” _

“So was I.” Ratchet pulled Drift a little tighter against his chest. “You’re safe now, though. Rest.”

This time, he did readily.

Ratchet didn’t follow until nightfall when Hound and the black wolf howled to tell their wolf family they were going over the mountains. Even the mother hound bayed eerily into the night, and the answering calls sent shivers up Ratchet’s spinal struts. 

The journey deeper into the wilderness would begin at sunrise.

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	6. Part Five

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####  Present

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Of all the things she’d thought she might find herself wanting on a journey through the mountains, Prowl was surprised how much she missed her hammock. The crystal forests that stretched between Praxus and Iacon were much more sparsely inhabited than the jungles of Polyhex, but the mechanimals that were present made sleeping on the ground a nervous business. It wouldn’t have been so bad with traveling companions to share watches with, but Prowl was alone, and a lone femme was a tempting target for turbowolves.

Well. Lone except for her spirit, but turbowolves thought shipcats were tasty too.

“That was the last time, right?” said cat meowed as the sun rose. “No more sleeping in trees?”

“No more sleeping in trees on this journey.” Prowl undid the rope harness she’d made for herself and slid off her perch, lowering the rest of her belongings before climbing down after them. Spirits and gods, she was stiff! It got  _ cold  _ up here when it got dark, and sleeping among the crystal branches was drafty. Luckily, “We’ll reach Iacon City before they close the gates for the night.”

“We better,” Sundance yowled from the lowest branch. She edged herself closer to the edge and scrunched herself up to jump, her tail waving back and forth. Prowl was amused to see her little aft wriggle. “Don’t like dogs!”

“I know you don’t.” Prowl didn’t particularly mind dogs herself, even spirit wolves, but wild turbowolves were another story. “I’m looking forward to putting a wall between us and them too.”

“Don’t like walls either,” Sundance whined, finally leaping gracefully to the ground. 

Prowl giggled as she stretched. “Well, in this situation, you’re going to have to pick one or the other.”

“Meanie. Just for that, you’re carrying me.”

“I’m carrying you anyway,” Prowl pointed out. As soon as she got properly limbered up and grabbed a bite to eat, she’d be back on her wheels with Sundance riding along with her things in her vehicle mode’s internal compartment. 

There weren’t a whole lot of options as far as breakfast went. She could hear hoppers, chirping to welcome the morning and some sort of… mountain warbling critter she had yet to actually see. A bird of some sort? Maybe. And glitchmice. Sundance had spent the night in the tree with her, so there were no morning food gifts to trip over. Not that a glitchmouse was enough prey for a femme Prowl’s size.

Neither were hoppers, really. Still, she was determined to at least try to catch a few before resorting to her dwindling supply of energon. She didn’t know what would happen in Iacon City, and she’d need to sell off more of the jewelry she’d packed for money before she could buy more. Better to supplement her rations along the way and avoid that if possible. The pieces she had left were worth a lot, but the drawback of that was the attention they’d draw on the market. Being accused of stealing would be a real problem, and who would believe her if she claimed the jewelry was hers? Covered in crystal scratches and road dust from traveling alone through the wilderness, she looked nothing like a Praxan noble, if she even still had the rank to claim.

_ Pounce!  _ Gravel went flying as Sundance got a headstart on their hunting. “Rrn’t ‘oo gonna ea’somfing?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. Or do.” There was no one to offend out here. “And yes, I’m going to eat something. Just as soon as I can catch it.” Which would be easier with a bucket. Or a basket, like the ones she’d learned to weave on the islands. Maybe even a net. None of which she currently had on her, of course.

Oh, well. She could use the practice catching them barehanded. 

The first one she saw was sitting right in the middle of the road, fanning its wings before chirping loudly. Prowl crouched down and crept toward it, moving carefully to avoid startling it prematurely until she was close enough to—

_ Pounce! _

Not quite the same level of success as Sundance, but even though she failed to get it in hand, she smacked it as it tried to leap away hard enough to stun it. A second pounce and she had it, albeit somewhat crushed.

Crushed was still edible. Crushed meant she was saved the trouble of crushing it  _ deliberately  _ to make it stop wiggling before eating it even! 

Chewing on her catch, she picked up her things and started walking toward Iacon, optics scanning her surroundings for the next one.

It was fun, in a way, stopping every so often to try to catch something. She didn’t always succeed but compared to a vorn ago when she couldn’t even catch a single hopper, Prowl felt she had reason to be proud!

A rustling sound on the side of the road announced the presence of something much bigger right as she picked up a mostly undamaged hopper. Prowl tensed as the creature revealed itself, only relaxing partially when the mechanimal proved to be a lean, faded turbodog. Village dogs were usually friendly… unless you weren’t from their village. 

“Hi,” she said quietly, watching it for signs of aggression and hostility. It didn’t  _ look  _ like it was on patrol… “What are you doing out here?”

It wagged its tail and approached slowly, sniffing at the hexbug in Prowl’s hand.

“Are you hungry?” She’d sacrifice her catch if it would get her on the dog’s good side.

“Don’t give her,” a voice said in halting Iaconi behind her. “She eat. Begs in city.”

“Oh!” Startled, Prowl turned around to see— she wasn’t quite sure what, at first. Someone had to be there, but it was only after several nanokliks of staring right at him that she was able to distinguish the shape of a mech half-hidden in the low-lying brush crystals. He blended into them so well she never would have noticed him if he hadn’t spoken. “Hello,” she said, switching to Iaconi herself. “Is she yours?”

“Hello,” the mech repeated carefully. “Mine? No. Not own.”

“Do you know if she’s friendly then?” That was the more important question, though if she begged for food in the city she probably was. Although… “With cats?”

The way the mech let out a crooning sound, somewhere between a growl and a whine, was  _ instantly _ recognizable. Like a wizard talking to her familiar, or a priest-mage talking to his spirit. “Friend enough with cat. Is that…” The mech sniffed in her direction. “Are you cat?”

“I am. A  _ shipcat,”  _ Prowl used the Polyhexian word, then meowed into the woods. “Sundance? Where are you?”

“Coming!” the cat yowled back. “I found a really big bug! It was super tastyyyyy~~!” She screeched to a halt somewhere behind the stranger, then hissed aggressively. “Wolf!”

The mech blinked bemusedly at the source of all that noise.

Prowl, meanwhile, was confused. “What wolf? She’s just a turbohoun...” A dark shape that was very much  _ not  _ a turbohound stood up from the brush and shook itself. Its audial flaps folded back against its head aggressive-defensively until the mech put a calming hand on its shoulder. Frag. That was bigger than an island dubuk. She swallowed. “Is that one friendly?”

Sundance darted out onto the road, practically under the turbowolf’s nose, and scaled Prowl so she was perched on her shoulders and growling. 

“Friend, yes.” The mech patted the wolf’s shoulder. “Pack.”

Pack… Prowl looked between the mech, the wolf, and the turbohound. With that context, they sort of reminded her of Cricket, the Polyhexian newling who constantly had at least three puppies with her everywhere she went. No one doubted what her spirit would prove to be, or that she would grow into a fine pack-leader. Did this mech have the same skill and kinship with the mechanimals? 

“Nooo, why are you relaxing?!” Sundance hissed again. “It could be dangerous!”

“Only if we’re dangerous first.” Prowl reached up to stroke her spirit’s tensed plating soothingly, then addressed the mysterious mech. “She’s friend enough with dogs,” she said with a tentative smile. “Are we friends?”

“Don’t know,” he said honestly. “I was curious. I have never seen a mech-who-hunts.”

“There aren’t any— many?” because this mech looked like he hunted, “on the mainland. The only ones I know are from the sea.” 

“I have heard this.” The mech stepped out of the brush and the dark wolf followed him. Circling around Prowl, the female hound joined her pack and nuzzled her mech’s hand. “I am Hound. Do you just hunt the bugs, because you are a cat?”

“Prowl is a fierce warrior!” Sundance meowed loudly. “She doesn’t  _ just  _ hunt bugs, she hunts sea monsters!”

“Pfft.” It was a nice vote of confidence, but Prowl phrased it a little more diplomatically than her spirit had. “I’m Prowl of Rainclouds, and this is Sundance. We’re hunting what we find along the road because we want to reach the city before dark. So far that’s been bugs.”

“Okay.” The mech, Hound, scratched at a spot at the base of his helm. “I will let you go. I will not go closer to the city. Was curious though.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said, though she made no move to leave right away. “I’m curious too. Do you live out here? With only the forest, never going to the city?”

“Yes. Have since pup.” Much more restless than the dark wolf, the female hound started sniffing around, circling them again. “Not usually  _ here _ here. There is only small prey, and a pack to feed.”

“So you must go where the prey is.” Prowl nodded. The wolves were the only large creatures she and Sundance had encountered in this area of the mountains, and the pack couldn’t very well hunt itself. Which begged the question. “Why are you here now?”

“I asked for Iacon to stop hunting wolves,” Hound said. “Waiting to see if,” he paused as though working through the words needed, “Prime and council? See if they agree.”

“Not likely,” Sundance sniffed.

“Not if they stay close by maybe, but what if they’ve agreed to stay away? Going out to hunt and eradicate wolves in the wild is different from killing them when they’re attacking a mining village.” 

“Won’t help. Iacon thinks wolves are  _ evil,  _ like the rebels. Demon wolves.”

Prowl rolled her optics. “Demon wolves. Ridiculous.”

“Is, but it’s what they believe.  _ You,”  _ Sundance reached out to put her paw on Prowl’s nose, “believed it before you fought the dubuk and ran with Chromia’s pack.” 

Okay, she couldn’t argue that one. And in that light, she couldn’t argue Sundance’s assertion that the Prime would not agree to stop hunting wolves either. Evil, as they saw it, could not be ignored. Iacon as a nation, under its Covenant, was obligated to go after and eradicate evil no matter where it was found; such was the dogma that had dragged them across their borders into Kaon’s civil war, and it applied to wolves outside the boundaries of cities as well.

Politics. Why was it always politics?

Hound tilted his head and waited quietly, curiously, for them to finish their meowed conversation. 

“Good luck,” Prowl told him simply. Whatever case he’d made to the council, it was their decision now. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Was nice to meet you,” he parroted back. He smiled, and if Prowl had seen the expression in court, she would have thought it thin and insincere (not that many in the court ever really smiled  _ sincerely), _ but what struck her about Hound’s smile was that it carefully didn’t show off his teeth. Polyhexians didn’t hide their teeth, smiling widely to show joy and baring their fangs aggressively to threaten, but for a mech who’d lived with wolves since he was a “pup”, that distinction could have fallen by the wayside.

Silent as they’d come, Hound and the dark wolf melted back into the forest. The female hound sniffed along the road once more, then darted into the trees.

“Great. Can we go now?” 

“You’re so impatient.” Prowl walked over to where she’d last dropped her belongings, balancing her cat on her shoulder. “But yes, I think we should probably go.” Hound’s promise to “let them go” hadn’t sounded precisely like a threat, but knowing he and his pack were out there watching them where they couldn’t see or hear them killed any desire Prowl had to linger. 

The hoppers stopped chirping once it was bright enough for most mainland mechs to be up and about, beginning their cycles. In place of their song the air filled, as in decacycles past, with a loud droning sound as the sun warmed the forest. Prowl still didn’t know what kind of creature that was, though she suspected it was a warmth-loving hexbug of some sort.

Without their chirps, though, Prowl couldn’t find the hoppers reliably. With that fuel source no longer a viable option she gave in and paused, drank a small ration of her energon, then transformed so she could drive the rest of the way into Iacon. It was tricky storing her belongings inside herself without someone to help her load them, but she managed. The spell that let her summon an unseen servant was very useful for such things, even if the servant wasn’t strong enough to lift the entire burden at once. Its ability to push and reposition things was invaluable.

“They weren’t spirits,” Sundance said out of the blue some time into the drive. “Not like me.”

“No.” If she’d had the ability, she would have petted her familiar. “I thought they were more like Cricket’s puppies.”

“Were.” Prowl felt the cat shift on top of her cargo. “Were bound to him like them. Like Drift and his dogs too, sort of.”

Drift? Arcee’s guard, the one who had helped her learn to use the staff and the sling in the wake of Jazz’s original kidnapping? She knew he belonged to an Iaconi soldier-class that focused on training turbohounds to fight, but she’d never seen him with his dogs in battle. “I didn’t know Drift’s hounds had a mystical connection.” 

“Not a strong one. Hound and his pack are a lot more like Cricket and hers than Drift and his. It’s there though.” Sundance’s meow was absolutely certain. “And  _ none  _ of them are demons.”

Prowl giggled. She had wondered why the magics that were so pervasive and natural and indivisible from a mech’s spark in Polyhex seemed utterly nonexistent on the mainland. Perhaps they weren’t missing so much as muted. Hidden. Misunderstood. “Of course they aren’t demons.”

“Makes it more likely the rebels aren’t either. Maybe.”

That was… a relief of sorts. It was another thing she could tell Arcee (if she could find Arcee) in addition to the vague assertion that Polyhexian magic was varied enough that she couldn’t confirm or deny the rebels using something like it from reports alone.

Her estimation of the time it would take to reach the city proved to be remarkably accurate. The cycle was wearing on but the sun hadn’t begun to set when the winding road straightened out and the walls came into view. The white stone gleamed in the afternoon light, and even from a distance Prowl could see the flashes of armored sentries along the top of it. They would be able to see her now too, and she made sure she was driving at a reasonable speed. 

The sentries on the ground were stopping mechs and asking them questions before allowing them to enter. There wasn’t much of a line, so their questions were probably more in line with an interview than an interrogation, but Prowl didn’t know if that was normal for peacetime or if travel was being restricted because of the conflict. No one was turned away while she joined the queue and watched the proceedings, but they all had documentation… 

Finally, the last person in front of her was allowed to enter the city and it was Prowl’s turn. She rolled up slowly to the sentry and stopped where the others all had, waiting to be addressed. 

“Name and reason for your visit?” came the first question. 

“My name is Prowl,” Prowl said honestly, though she left off any titles. “I’ve come—” she really should have thought about how she would answer that while she was in line! “—to see a friend of mine. She wrote me a letter asking to meet.”

The sentry noted that on the writing board he held. “Country of origin, caste, and estimated length of visit?”

“Praxus,” Prowl answered slowly, stuck for a moment on caste. No longer royalty or nobility, of course, but what did that leave her?

“Mm-hm.” He nodded as he wrote that down too, then looked at her expectantly.

“Scholar?” Sundance mewed, her suggestion barely audible. “Or merchant, like Jazz during the trade season? Warrior would just confuse him, even if it’s true,” she sniffed.

“I’m a scholar,” Prowl said quickly before the sentry could lose patience. She didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t like her answers. “And I’m not sure how long, but it shouldn’t be more than a decacycle.”

“Are you a mage or are you transporting magical artifacts of any kind?”

“I am a mage, but I have no artifacts with me aside from the components of my craft.” She didn’t even have a spellbook, though there was no need to bring that up.

“Since you’re Praxan, which of the Guiding Hand do you follow and are you in possession of holy symbols or other religious artifacts not associated with the Primordial Duo?”

_ That  _ was one she absolutely couldn’t answer truthfully. Invoking the gods of Polyhex here would get her locked away as a heretic, possibly accused of being in league with the evil Kaonex demons. “I was sworn to Epistemus of the Guiding Hand in a rather secular manner. I have no religious artifacts with me.” Polyhexian artifacts, yes, but none of them counted as religious the way the guard meant. 

“Weapons or other restricted materials to declare?”

“I have a xiphos with me for defense on the road,” Prowl admitted. “No restricted materials.”

Another note went on the board. “I need to see the weapon.”

Prowl popped her door so he could see what she was carrying. “Or I can transform?” she offered, uncertain. How was this supposed to work? She’d never had to do this before.

The mech finally broke from his script and gave her a slight smile of reassurance. “No. This will only take a klik.” He reached into her compartment and pulled out the sword. Another mech who’d been supervising came over and the sentry held it out to him. That mech turned off his optics and made a gesture over the weapon with a wand. Magic sank into it, though Prowl didn’t know the spell. A wizard? Or one of Iacon’s spellcasting clerics? Either way, he didn’t stick around. He wrote something on the sentry’s sheet of flimsy that also briefly sparkled with magic — that spell she did recognize as a basic arcane mark spell — then left, going back to his supervisory position. 

The sentry placed the sword back into its place then stepped back so Prowl could close her door. 

After another klik of fiddling with the form, he signed the sheet, stamped it, then turned it so she could see. “Have you ever been to the First City before, or would you like me to explain this?”

“Please,” Prowl said gratefully. “This is my first time in Iacon.”

“This is a temporary visitor pass to the city,” he said, indicating a section of the form. “You may use it to acquire temporary lodging in either the temple guest halls or any inn. You must find lodging; sleeping on the street is not permitted in Iacon and you will be fined if you do so. You will also have to show this pass if you are stopped for any reason by the guards inside the city. If you’re caught acting in a manner that indicates any of this information is false, you may be fined, imprisoned, deported or — and I only include this because we are currently at war — executed. It’s good until this date, a decacycle from now, after which you may not be legally housed inside the city, and if you are picked up for any reason, could be imprisoned and fined. If you wish to stay after this date you can petition the temple for an extension, but they will likely require proof of employment per your declared caste. If an extension is granted, it is likely your right to temporary lodgings at the temple will be revoked at that time. Questions?”

It was a lot to take in, but Prowl followed it like any other contract or treaty. “Would you recommend one over the other? Between the guest halls and inns, I mean.”

“A decent inn will give you a room of your own with a lock,” he said kindly, “while temple housing is a patch of the floor near a fire. But the priests won’t charge you for it. A donation is appreciated, but not required. And,” he looked her over, “you may want to visit the temple first anyway. As you’re not a soldier, drawing your weapon within the walls is punishable by a fine, and if you carry it openly people may assume you’ve used it recently and won’t do business with you until the sin’s been washed away.”

“Oh! I hadn’t considered that.” She had no personal need for Iacon’s ritual cleansing, despite being incredibly unclean by their standards for having consumed living mechanisms, but that didn’t make following the custom a bad idea. “Thank you for the advice.”

“You’re welcome. And you’re all set.” The sentry put her identification paper in with her luggage when she popped her door again. “Welcome to the First City.”

Prowl thanked him again and drove forward, passing through the gate. 

“Just so you know,” Sundance meowed, “I do  _ not  _ need my sins washed away.”

Prowl giggled.  _ “Satu,” _ she used the Polyhexian first-person pronoun for a mech or femme and their spirit as a single entity, “do not. But I can’t live off of glitchmice alone, and it’ll be hard to buy food if no one will talk to me.”

_ “You  _ like baths. Go right ahead.”

She did like baths, but she wasn’t sure what this one would be like. Arcee had described the rituals she undertook to become a paladin as arduous, and had mentioned several other religious practices that sounded… inconvenient, but she hadn’t gone into specifics during their short engagement. “I still owe you a bath though.”

Sundance’s plating bristled indignantly. “With a washcloth,  _ dipped _ in oil;  _ not _ a dunking!” 

Prowl just chuckled and kept driving. 

Her first impression of Iacon City was how  _ clean  _ it was. The roads were made of dark grey cobblestone that hid dirt and road grime, while the buildings gleamed white in the afternoon sun. The richer buildings were made of white stone bricks, sometimes with faint swirls of color, while even the poorer buildings were covered in whitewash and paint. It was also well organized: even completely unfamiliar with the city as she was, Prowl was able to navigate her way to a commercial square with relative ease.

She saw several guards here, but though their optics roamed suspiciously over her like the rest of the crowd, they didn’t stop her. That was a good start.

Now she just needed to find a temple… 

She looked toward the gleaming white palace. Iacon was ruled by a Prime, not a king. There would be a temple there, in the center of the city, along with the rest of the government buildings. She had no idea if she, a foreigner covered in road dust, would be allowed near such a significant place, or even if anyone who wasn’t royalty would be. There would be other, smaller temples throughout the city though, surely. Praxus had several, and  _ Praxans _ didn’t go to formal prayer ceremonies more than once every few decacycles! She just needed to find one.

It hadn’t yet occurred to her to wonder what time it was, beyond knowing she had plenty of time to find lodging before nightfall, when a series of loud bells tolled. At first she thought it was an alarm, that the city was being attacked! But the mechs around her simply continued what they were doing, and when the bell had tolled five times and then stopped, she realized that they were announcing the time. The announcement had started at the center of the city, echoing outward as it was picked up by other towers (temples?) all the way out to the walls. How clever! With this system, the whole of Iacon CIty could function off a single water or sand clock in the main temple.

In addition to announcing the time, the bells also conveniently let her know which direction the nearest temple was likely in, and that it was close. “I’m going to transform,” Prowl warned Sundance, popping her door so her spirit could hop out. Once she was clear, Prowl backed up, then drove forward into a transformation that let her unfold and roll to her feet in a way that left her belongings on the ground where she could easily pick them up. So much easier than going the other way! But if she’d thought the citizens of Iacon had been keeping their distance before — which she had noticed a small degree of, and attributed it to being on the road rather than a pedestrian walkway — they immediately pulled farther back now. “They aren’t afraid of me, surely?”

“Unworldly civilians afraid of a dirty, outlandish visitor with a weapon and a suspicious amount of luggage who is meowing to a cat? Never.” Sundance leaped up to her usual perch on Prowl’s shoulder and licked her cheek. “They’re probably just afraid you’ll contaminate them.”

“Well that certainly isn’t my goal.” Hence the search for a temple! She thought the sound of the nearest bells had been coming from— 

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes?” Prowl turned to the speaker and found herself facing a mech just shorter than she was, painted a soothing combination of light blues and greens. The holy symbol he wore around his neck was large and prominent, and she wondered if, “Are you a priest?”

“I am. The guards said you looked lost and I thought to offer guidance.”

“How perceptive of them,” Prowl said with a rueful smile. Of course it was their job to be perceptive but she appreciated them summoning a priest to approach her as a visitor rather than immediately confronting her as a threat. “I’m afraid this is my first time in the city and I’m not sure where I should go first.”

“I can direct you to a good inn if you like,” he offered, “but we have been getting a few mercenaries coming through. Unlike our own soldiers, who are well provided for, the assumption is that mercenaries are unclean, and some merchants may not speak to you while there’s a chance they could pick up any potential contamination of the spirit.” 

“I’m not a mercenary myself, but I was warned that such caution might extend to me. Do I,” Prowl gestured to the marred state of her finish with a hint of humor, “appear unclean?”

The priest chuckled, optics twinkling at the joke. “It would be much appreciated if you would allow your sins to be washed away; if nothing else, you’ll be doused off.”

“I would be much obliged,” Prowl replied. “Will you help me?”

“Of course, child of Primus. To get to the main temple, simply continue following this road until you reach the wall around the triune. If you take Healer’s Walk road to the south around the city center, you will reach the entrances to the Halls of Healing. There you will be welcomed, your body healed and your spirit cleansed.”

She was supposed to go to the main temple after all then? Maybe these “Halls of Healing” were sufficiently cut off from the palace that they didn’t mind riff raff on the grounds. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” 

“Primus bless,” he said in farewell.

Having already transformed, Prowl didn’t really want to deal with the hassle of getting everything situated again for driving, so she set off on foot. She didn’t have to worry about taking up too much space on the walkway with her belongings at least, what with everyone giving her a wide berth. 

Sundance took advantage of the slower pace to dart off several times, never for longer than a couple of kliks. “Finding anything interesting?” Prowl meowed when she returned the third time, after they’d passed into what was obviously a noble’s housing district, though the streets were as busy as ever.

“This place is suuuper clean,” Sundance meowed back. “There are mice, but they aren’t coming out.”

“Ah. Maybe you’ll have better luck at night then.”

“I hope so. Or else you’ll let me staaaarve,” the cat yowled loud enough that other mechs and femmes looked over to see what was happening.

“I will not!” Prowl laughed, nowhere near as concerned or ashamed as she probably should have been — this wasn’t the Praxan court, under the optics of the King, whom she still wanted approval from — and reached down to her noisy familiar. “You know I would never. Come here, I think that’s Healer’s Walk just ahead.”

She could see the wall around the palace as they drew closer, so… Yes. This was Healer’s Walk, neatly labeled by a sign at the nearest crossroads. It was certainly nice of Iacon to put up such signs and keep the roads clean and in repair. Perhaps she could—

“Don’t go getting any ideas. No one’s going to want to bother with street signs on Rainclouds.”

“Pfft. They don’t even bother with  _ streets.”  _ Prowl grinned as she imagined the looks on her clanmates’ faces over such things. It would almost be worth the attempt to describe them just to see their confusion. It hadn’t actually been Polyhex she’d been fantasizing about, but the diversion reminded her that she wasn’t going to be in a position to name all of Praxus’ streets anytime soon. “Anyway, you can’t argue they aren’t useful here.”

“I  _ could,” _ Sundance drawled, just to be contrary, climbing up Prowl’s frame to get onto her shoulder.

“And you’d be wrong.” Prowl booped her on the nose. “For the first time in your life.”

“Nu-uh. I’m never wrong!” She wrinkled her nose, tickling Prowl’s hand with her whiskers. “Is that the entrance?”

“I think so.” Prowl headed toward it and, sure enough, if these weren’t the Halls of Healing she’d hang up her harpoon and turn villager. The architecture was grand and magnificent, even at what she assumed was the “common” entrance. Gold shone from statues and inlays depicting the Light of Primus as well as the god himself, the imagery continuing upward into the vaulted ceilings that created an incredible sense of space and light. It hadn’t looked  _ un _ impressive from the outside, but the inside was truly incredible.

“Are you here on pilgrimage, or are you in need of healing?” a young blueish-green femme asked, trotting over. “If you need a place to meditate, I can show you to the gardens.”

“I suppose I am on a pilgrimage of sorts.” Prowl forced her optics away from the amazing artistry around them. “At the moment I’m in search of cleansing and somewhat leery of the prospect.”

Instantly the plating around the femme’s optics softened with compassion. “It’s not an easy thing to do, but worthwhile for its benefits. Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up. My name is Velocity.”

“Thank you, Velocity. I’m Prowl,” Prowl introduced herself. “Can you tell me what is involved? I’m unfamiliar with the specifics of the ritual.”

“We’ll start with a perfectly mundane shower. This is so that dirt and rust don’t contaminate the sacred pools. That is a bad omen, but also, especially when there’s a lot of soldiers going through the same, it can be a health hazard. Easily preventable with a shower, so that first…” 

As she went on to describe the fasting and the prayers. Prowl picked up on the fact that the priest’s job was not just to lead her through the steps, but also act as confessor for Prowl to unburden her sins. At any point in the prayers, Velocity could stand in for Primus, listen, and let Prowl say whatever was in her spark.

Prowl doubted she would feel the need and was not at all surprised when Sundance disappeared to explore the temple on her own, being even less invested in the ritual than she was.

“And this goes on for an entire cycle?” Prowl asked when the explanation finally drew to an end, taken aback by the degree to which everything was prescribed and how much relied on the presence and participation of the priest. 

“Not the entire cycle,” Velocity assured, opening a door onto a series of tiled shower stalls. “Not for a soldier, unless you feel you need the extra time in communion with Primus’s Light. You can leave your things here,” she patted the first in a row of heavy chests that, on closer inspection, Prowl saw had been bolted to the floor. “Find one that’s unlocked, and take the key when you lock your stuff up. You can come back after the ceremony.”

That was an elegant solution. This wasn’t her clan; theft was rampant on the islands, but usually emotionally motivated, so as long as she wasn’t involved in too many feuds, her things were mostly safe without walls or locks. Not so here, and it looked like the Iaconi were practical about it. Prowl was glad the chests were large enough that she didn’t have to struggle to fit her things when she found an available one. Probably designed to accommodate large weapons and heavy armor, though even as she put her own sword away, she said, “I’m not a soldier. I’m a scholar.”

“Oh?” Velocity smiled. “Then I suppose you don’t need the assurances about how Primus understands choices made on the battlefield, and how ignoring evil is the greater sin.” Her expression turned soft again, reassuring. “There is no shame in making the choice to live either.”

“What about choosing  _ how  _ to live?” It wasn’t a question Prowl had ever thought to ask Arcee, but she was curious to know the answer. She closed the heavy trunk, locked it, and hung the key from her wrist by the provided strap. “What does Primus have to say about that?”

Velocity pulled a curtain back to invite Prowl into the nearest shower stall. “I’m not sure I understand the question. We all follow the paths Primus lays out for us.”

“I was thinking about caste mobility,” Prowl elaborated, figuring that was the safest way to approach the subject as she joined Velocity. “In Praxus, the lines are not as rigid as they once were.”

“Primus chooses our paths when our sparks ignite. He writes them from beginning to end while we wander through the sky, and we are assigned our caste as part of that plan. I don’t know why anyone would deviate from that.” Velocity retrieved a washcloth, a towel, and a bottle of soap from a nearby shelf. “Would you prefer I help you with this physical cleansing, or do you wish the time for contemplation?”

She didn’t have to let Velocity do it? “I would take the time to think,” Prowl said, trying not to sound too eager. She didn’t have to let yet  _ another _ stranger at her plating! Alone time!

“I will be just beyond that arch,” she nodded to the door opposite the one they’d entered, “when you’re done, or if you need me for any reason. Remember: there is no shame in seeking me out just to talk.”

“I’ll remember.” The offer was well meant, but her spark was already at peace. She didn’t feel guilty for her actions as a warrior, and especially not for killing mechanimals so she could eat. There was no other way in Polyhex. They, mechs and femmes, were no more than mechanimals themselves, participating in the natural cycles. They did so respectfully, without waste. She had no need of Primus’ guidance.

What she needed was a shower and not to be ostracized. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be doing any of this.

Prowl took a moment to examine the setup once she was alone. These showers were arranged like the barracks showers in Praxus and large enough for over a dozen mechs at once, suggesting they could see heavy use. The space was open and anyone could walk in at any moment, which, fine. Anyone here for their own cleansing would probably ignore her. 

She was grateful not to have an audience as she struggled with the shower controls though. She hadn’t thought something like this would be different than in Praxus (hadn’t the engineers designed them originally to be universal?) but there were obviously some principles of design that were cultural rather than intuitive. Where Praxan showers had knobs that were turned, Iaconi ones apparently had chains that were pulled. This shower only had one chain, which let out a stream of warm, but not hot, water when pulled, but Prowl could see the connections where a second chain could be attached. For more precise temperature control? Probably. It took her several tries at pulling the chain, enduring a deluge, then watching helplessly while the chain slowly retracted, gradually cutting off the water, before she figured out she could use the unobtrusive hook on the wall beneath the chain to keep it from retracting. Several large links fit the hook precisely, letting her adjust the water pressure to where it was comfortable.

“On the plus side,” she muttered, finally able to step under a constant stream of water, “the temperature didn’t come as a surprise.”

It felt nice to finally rinse off the road dirt. A good amount of rusty red ran off of her, staining the stream swirling to the drain almost immediately. Yuck. She flared her plating, letting the water flood through and flush out the gaps as thoroughly as possible before reaching for the soap. She couldn’t scrub her own doors, but she vigorously lathered up every other part of her frame that she could reach before rinsing again. More yuck came away with the bubbles, and Prowl could feel a measurable difference in the movement of her joints. Yaaaay. Clean!

Mindful that it was apparently a bad omen for the cleansing waters to be stained, Prowl  _ did _ stand under the spray rinsing her doors, determined to wait until the water ran clear to the drain. Carcharhinidae might be her patron, but Prowl didn’t particularly want to upset Primus either, especially right now.

Sadly, the state of her plating underneath the dirt was a bit dispiriting. She was going to need new paint again soon. The Praxan gloss she’d worn to that final dinner had not held up well at all in the mountains. At least none of her scratches were deep enough to need more than the temporary bandages she’d applied on the road, then discarded. They should heal quickly. Her Polyhexian-quick healing wasn’t fading as fast as either she or Sundance had feared, though the long-enduring ritual blue finally was. She was going to have to apply new wake light paint soon. Good thing she’d planned for that when leaving Hightower, and hadn’t left the paint in the palace when she’d fled. That couldn’t wait until she’d returned to the islands, though perhaps her regular colors could. She liked the paints Wheeljack had made, and this time she’d be more prepared to trade for them. She just needed to bring him a new copper or iron pot and a few blocks of plain wax and they’d work together to make them again...

While she waited for the last of the dust to come free, she contemplated where she’d put the blue wake light paint when she had a chance. Her chest seam of course, but a Polyhexian would put more than that on, with or without her bondmate’s help. Jazz usually followed erogenous zones, placing dots and lines on sensitive spots and seams, as though advertising how best to pleasure her. Prowl enjoyed highlighting edges and shapes that appealed to her, whether they were erogenous or not. Maybe she could come up with a combination of the two; something that expressed both of them until they were together again and Jazz could add in whatever she’d left out. 

It would justify not putting any on her doors now and getting Jazz’s hands on them as soon as possible when they reunited.

Another mech being escorted in by a priest drew her from her thoughts. Prowl did her best to ignore the murmurs of their conversation as he put his own weapons in a trunk and started his shower. The sound of the spray somewhat muffled their continued speech, but this mech apparently wanted to take advantage of having a captive audience to talk things through with.

It wasn’t polite to eavesdrop. Prowl quickly finished her shower, then went to find Velocity.

She found the young priest meditating on a mat, facing a small fountain. “Forgive me for interrupting,” Prowl said, announcing her presence.

Velocity looked up and smiled encouragingly. “No interruption at all. Ready?”

She hoped so. “Yes.”

The priest (priestess?) stood smoothly. “Then follow me to the ritual pool.” 

It wasn’t far. This part of the temple had obviously been designed for one step of the process to flow efficiently into the next. A short walk down the clean glass garden path between two crystal trees brought them to a chapel. Unlike the main Hall through which she’d entered, this building (room?) was smaller and almost cozy. Bas-relief sculpture, stained glass, and an intricate mosaic floor gloried in the light and forgiveness of Primus, beckoning her toward a pool of water so clear and calm Prowl thought at first that it was more glass. Candles topped with ever-burning spells flickered all around, but there were so many that there were almost no shadows, even her own. 

“Step in.”

It would absolutely have felt wrong to dirty this water. Prowl watched the surface ripple as she entered the pool, spreading out in small waves centered on her feet. It was cooler than the shower, but not uncomfortably so. “What should I do?”

“Kneel.” Velocity picked up a gleaming brass (at least Prowl assumed it was brass; it looked like gold) ladle. “I’ll say most of the prayers, but there are places where you’ll repeat what I just said. And if you need to interrupt and talk, or cry, there is no shame. Everyone’s path to forgiveness is different, and Primus listens.”

Once again, Prowl didn’t expect she would need to, but she nodded solemnly all the same. Having found herself in desperate need of guidance so recently on the island of the gods, she understood how a ritual like this had the potential to be highly emotional. Just because she had no need beyond the practical for it didn’t make it less spiritual to others.

That wasn’t something she could have appreciated before her vorn in Polyhex. The worship of Primus in Iacon was more structured than anything in the islands, much like religion in Praxus, but while it still put priests between the people and the god, the importance of it and strength of its influence here had more in common with Prowl’s adoptive people than her country of origin.

Though totally different in almost every other way, she was finding.

The bells tolled the passing of her first joor in the city as they began to pray. Prowl tried to relax and open her spark and mind to Primus while she listened to and occasionally repeated the prayers. This was her time to commune with Him, and she was curious as to what, if anything, He would say to her. Would He be upset there was a heathen in His temple?

The cadence of the ritual was easy to fall into, following Velocity’s chanting and dipping of the ladle into the pure, clear water to drizzle it over Prowl’s plating. The water wasn’t cold, but soon her plating ached from it, and from staying still for so long. Her legs, her shoulders, her doors… 

Her spark. That was the ache she felt most acutely. She wasn’t all here; Sundance, her spirit, wasn’t here. Jazz, her bondmate, wasn’t here. Her bondmate’s twin. Her clan.

She wasn’t complete without them.

Another ladleful of water splashed over her head. Prowl looked up and, for a nanoklik, could have sworn the droplets were made of liquid light. She thought she heard bells again, but the ringing was distant and soft and impossible to count. Something in the quality of Velocity’s voice changed, or her perception of it did; the sound was richer, fuller, and filled the space around them in a way that sank into Prowl’s plating with a warmth she couldn’t quite define. 

“There,” Velocity said quietly, some indeterminate time later, after the echoes faded. “Lean on me. I have a nice warm towel with your name on it.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Somewhat stiffly, Prowl managed to unbend her knees and get to her feet. She couldn’t fault it as a form of penitence, but luckily it hadn’t been truly torturous. And there’d been that moment… Perhaps Primus didn’t mind a heathen in His temple after all. Velocity held out her arm, and Prowl took the offered support gratefully. “Which way?”

“Here.” Velocity wrapped the towel around her, soft and, after a moment where it felt scorching hot against her plating, delightfully warm. “It’s a bit chilly tonight, so I heated it for you. Dry off, then we’ll go back through the shower to pick up your things.”

“Is it chilly?” Prowl thought about the temperature for a moment. “I suppose it is. The lack of wind here compared to the road makes it feel much warmer.”

Velocity still insisted Prowl stay wrapped up in the heated towel during the short trip through the now moonlit glass-pathed garden and into the showers. 

“Hi,” Sundance meowed nonchalantly, sitting on top of one of the chests. “Miss me?”

“Sundance!” Leaving the towel behind, Prowl rushed over to her and stroked her plating. “Yes. I did.”

Her cat didn’t bother teasing her; she just climbed up Prowl’s arm to rub her face on Prowl’s cheek. “I’m not leaving you.”

Prowl purred. “Love you.” This was right. This was how  _ satu  _ should be.

“Love you.”

Velocity dropped the towel into a hamper while Prowl opened up the chest with her key. “Just leave it unlocked and the key there when you’re done. Do you need me to lead you anywhere else in the temple? Back to the main Hall, or to the guest hall perhaps?”

“The guest hall, if there is room,” Prowl replied. She’d lost track of the bells, but just from the walk through the garden she could tell it was far too late to find lodging in an inn. It would have been nice to clean off some of her things before getting their road dust back on herself now that she was all clean, but it sounded like she wasn’t going to get a chance. “I don’t have arrangements to stay anywhere else, and I hadn’t realized it was so late.” It was going to hit her soon though, given just how long she’d been awake.

Since  _ dawn. _ Wow.

Velocity nodded agreeably. “This way.” She led Prowl back out into the main Hall.

It was quieter than when she’d arrived, Prowl noticed. The Hall hadn’t seemed overly busy even then, but now the lack of even ambient sound made it eerily quiet. Their footsteps were much more pronounced now, and Prowl made a deliberate effort to walk quietly so as not to disturb the still atmosphere. 

They exited out another side door — this place was a  _ maze _ — and into a small courtyard. There were more chapels here, and Velocity started trotted towards the largest. “There’s no curfew,” she explained. “The nighttime supervisor will just log your pass, same as daytime. I wouldn’t suggest staying out late though: everyone staying in the temple will be woken for dawn prayers. Quiet joors are—”

_ “Princess?!” _

Prowl heard Sundance’s hiss of “Dog!” before she saw the white form of the hound’s master as he emerged from one of the smallest chapels. 

“Drift?!” If he was here, did that mean— “Is Arcee here? Is—?”  _ Silverstreak? _ She couldn’t say it.

Drift came closer, looking Prowl up and down as though he couldn’t believe his optics. One of the turbohounds, Prowl couldn’t remember which one, nosed her hand, looking for attention or treats and thoroughly annoying her cat with its proximity. 

“Your brother’s fine,” he finally said, apparently satisfied — if still incredulous — that it really was Prowl standing there. “He’s here, but… We’ve only been here a cycle ourselves. The messenger to Praxus only left this morning! How—?”

“I left Praxus a decacycle ago, almost as soon as I arrived from Hightower and learned he had been captured. I suppose I must have beaten any messengers here myself.” As she’d expected and hoped, though the relief she felt at Silverstreak and Arcee both being alive was so great it eclipsed everything else. It earned her another hiss in her audio, but Prowl sank to her knees and pulled the dog in for a hug, desperately in need of the emotional outlet and knowing Drift wouldn’t appreciate such effusive physical contact. “Thank all the spirits and gods.”

“Um, excuse me, but...?” Velocity sounded somewhat lost. “‘Princess’?”

“You should have been met at the gate, we…” Drift also floundered. “We need to get you announced.” His optics flicked from Prowl to the largest building in the courtyard, where Velocity had been leading her. “We were putting you in the  _ public guest house?” _ He clutched his head with a groan. “Primus!”

Oh no. “Drift, it’s alright,” Prowl said quickly. “It was hardly a personal slight. I  _ asked  _ to be quartered here.”

“Because it was all I offered you. Which was clearly in error,” Velocity said with dismay. “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t recognize you, your highness!”

“Please, I just—”

“Here.” Drift held out his hand to Prowl, smiling encouragingly. Cautiously, Prowl took it and let him help her stand. He guided her over to the chapel he’d exited and opened the door. “You’ll stay here tonight, and everything will be arranged in the morning, okay? Good. Ratchet! You have a guest!” And, without any further explanation, he pushed Prowl into the chapel. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite, and this way you won’t have to sleep on the floor.”

The door slammed closed in her face. 

Prowl stood staring at it, too stunned to react.

Sundance started laughing.

“Don’t just stand there,” a cranky, tired voice commanded. “Come in and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m… not sure what’s wrong.” Aside from feeling a bit steamrolled, Prowl was incredibly happy. She turned and saw a mech — a cleric — standing in a doorway across the small front room. “Prince Silverstreak and the Prime-Ascendant have returned safely, yes? They’re unhurt?”

The mech’s optics narrowed beneath his prominent grey chevron. “We are so blessed, yes,” he said guardedly. “I thought you needed a  _ vet.” _

“No. Way,” Sundance growled, crouching down on Prowl’s shoulder. “Stay away from me!”

“I’m afraid the only thing she needs is a sponge bath with warm oil, and I doubt Drift had that in mind when he stuffed me in here. Are you Ratchet?”

“I am,” the mech confirmed shortly. “Move out of the way. I’m going to track down that pest and… Mechs are trying to  _ recharge _ around here.”

“You won’t get much recharge if you go chasing after him. I imagine he’s halfway to the main temple already.” Drift was fast, and now that she was recovering from how suddenly everything had just happened, Prowl was getting a strong sense of deja vu. “Would it be alright if I slept here? It would probably be best to avoid causing any more trouble than I already inadvertently have.” At least this time she hadn’t been locked in while the powers that were sorted out what to do with her!

Ratchet blinked at her. “Why  _ here?” _ he complained, and Prowl honestly couldn’t tell whether he was asking the absent Drift or the silent Primus. Then he sighed. “I suppose. It’s not like there’s a lot of priests vying for the  _ honor _ of residing in the veterinary chapel.” He looked at Sundance, and over Prowl’s frame. “A sponge bath you said?”

“I promised her when we left Praxus,” Prowl explained. 

“Did! I  _ still  _ have ick on my plating from that jar.”

“You do not,” Prowl meowed back, turning to face her familiar. “Whatever you didn’t lick off, you rolled off in the snow.”

“Still icky.”

Ratchet just stomped out of the room, muttering to himself.

“On the plus side,” Sundance said with perfect seriousness like they hadn’t just been arguing over something completely silly, “I doubt execution is being considered here.”

Prowl sighed. “True, but extradition might be once they find out what happened, and it feels wrong not to be upfront with them.” Not that she’d been given a chance to be.

Since Ratchet hadn’t told her to stay put, she took the chance to explore a bit. Having come directly from both the cleansing pool and the main Hall of Healing, it was obvious that this small chapel was a lesser one. The tilework was perfectly serviceable and clean, but there was very little patterning. The windows were stained glass, but the walls had only simple decoration. And there was a scent permeating the air that Prowl couldn’t identify, but which reminded her faintly of the royal stables. Pillars and paper dividers created a sense of different rooms, one or two of which were occupied by well-behaved dogs or ponies or caged cybercats, and a peek through the door where Ratchet had disappeared revealed a narrow hall. The first door had cages and other medical tools, while the next had a small berthroom. Prowl left that one quickly.

Ratchet came back through the final doorway at the very end of the hall before Prowl could finish debating whether she dared open it. “You might as well go in that one,” he said, juggling a full bowl and basket of cleaning supplies. “It’s where you’ll be sleeping.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said, and opened the door so she could step out of his way. The room wasn’t big, but, like the rest of the place, it was perfectly clean and functional. “I hope we’re not inconveniencing you.”

“Even if you were,” Ratchet grumped, setting the bowl of oil down on the nightstand, then the basket on the floor next to it. “I know exactly who to blame for it, and it’s not you.” He left the bedside and Prowl thought he’d leave, but instead he closed the door. “Now, let’s see that cat.”

With a hiss, Sundance leaped off of her shoulder, aiming for under the bed, but was caught in midair by the priest’s rather large hands. 

“Oh! You should really let me do that,” Prowl said over Sundance’s loud protests. “She doesn’t like anyone else to wash her.”

“If you think I’m dumb enough to  _ bathe _ a cat…” Ratchet muttered, holding her securely while he examined her, even going so far as to extend her claws one by one, and open her mouth to look at her teeth. “On the whole she’s pretty healthy. You should stop feeding her off of your plate, though. I know it’s shocking for us ‘civilized’ mechs to hear, but they really do need to be eating live prey. Hunting gives them the mineral and rubber content they need, and provides mental stimulation that can prevent or ameliorate a rather long list of behavioral problems.”

Prowl was only partially successful at stifling her laugh over the cleric assuring her that it was alright for a cat to eat glitchmice. “She hunts plenty,” she said, thinking fondly of the gifts she and Jazz would find some mornings, “and I would never tell her not to, for all she’d listen if I did. The  _ problem,”  _ she glared at her familiar, “is the way she goes around begging treats from everyone she meets!”

“They are almost unbearably cute,” Ratchet agreed, ignoring how Sundance was rabbit kicking him with her back legs as he examined her belly. Prowl knew that a shipcat’s claws (even the blunter back claws) could hurt, but he had angled both arm and cat so that all she could scratch was the thickest part of his armored forearm. “But you see this,” he poked two plates of her armor so they moved apart, revealing some of the plastic-covered wires beneath. Prowl  _ didn’t _ see what he was trying to point out, but he went on before she could ask, “The plastic on her wires is thin, and so’s her plating, especially the rubber coating on the interior. That’s from her frame cannibalizing less essential parts for materials for repairs. It’s not serious yet, but I see it a lot in pets. Mech fuel just doesn’t have enough of the essential elements to keep up with a mechanimal’s self-repair.”

“But it’s tastyyyyyyy,” Sundance whined, squirming uselessly in Ratchet’s arms. 

“And, apparently, bad for you.” Prowl had to wonder, given the effectiveness of her own self-repair before and after living in Polyhex, how bad it was for her as well. “Thank you for showing me,” she said to Ratchet.

“It also rots their teeth,” he continued, not acknowledging her thanks as he opened Sundance’s mouth to look in there again. “I don’t see any rust here yet, but that’s usually the first thing an owner will notice. Here,” he shoved Sundance into Prowl’s arms, not letting go of his firm grip until Prowl had her securely. “And if you’re going to meow to her in public, you’re going to make people nervous. Some of the older clergy might try an exorcism…” He trailed off, then chuckled. “Which would serve them right. Never mind. I take it back; meow all you want.”

Right. Iacon and their religious prejudices. “I’ll try to be more careful. It gets weird looks in Praxus too, but nothing more than that.” Of course, when she ignored Sundance in public for too long, the cat got annoyed with her, and that was no fun either. “The thing is, she’s not a pet. She’s my—”  _ spirit  _ “—familiar.” Mages spoke in the language of their familiar. Sometimes, anyway. That didn’t always mean the familiars said anything useful back, but it was a handy explanation, even if it was considered uncouth in public in Praxus. Apparently in Iacon if could be mistaken for possession.

Ratchet shrugged. “Don’t stop on my account. If you want to give those chrome-plated fossils spark attacks, that is entirely your business.”

Oh, good. She didn’t need to worry about watching every little nuance around him. “Then I’ll meow all I want,” Prowl said with a smile before kissing her cat. “Shall I get that bath for you now?”

“Meanie!” she yowled loudly.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Ratchet said with something that might have been a smile. “I’ll try not to wake you at dawn.” He left, closing the door behind him.

“I think I like him,” Prowl decided. “And I love you.” She gave Sundance another kiss, then let her go so she could reach the supplies. 

“I don’t like him! All that prodding was Not Fun!” Sundance growled snappishly, darting under the bed to glare at the closed door. “How dare he try and tell me I can’t have treats!”

“He didn’t say you can’t have treats. He said it’s unhealthy to have so many of them.” Prowl moved down onto the floor, sitting beside the bowl and dangling the mesh cloth in an attempt to entice her cat out from her hiding place. “I am sorry about all the prodding though. I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

Though it had been impressive how he’d done it without flinching. Whenever Prowl had asked the castle doctors to look at some injury or other Sundance had managed to acquire, they’d wanted her claws covered or even for her to be muzzled.

Sundance swiped at the washcloth, batting petulantly.

“Anyway, I’m sure Silverstreak will still give you treats.” Prowl was so,  _ so  _ glad he was alright. The king’s power move had never actually put him in danger at all. “I suppose we came all this way for nothing then.”

That made Sundance crawl out from her shelter and into Prowl’s lap. “Does what we did feel useless?”

“Honestly?” Maybe it should have. She could imagine Bluestreak berating her in her mind, accusing her of overreacting, of making selfish, poorly thought out decisions and putting both herself and her country at risk for no reason. But that was the benefit of hindsight. At the time, she hadn’t known Silverstreak would be safe. She’d had no way of knowing, and if things had played out differently, she knew she would have regretted not acting more than she regretted leaving. Especially since, Silverstreak aside, “I don’t think it was the wrong decision.”

“Then it wasn’t for nothing.” Sundance nuzzled her. 

“No, it wasn’t.” Prowl nuzzled back, then dipped the mesh in the oil and began gently stroking Sundance’s plating with it. “Ever since Jazz first kidnapped me it’s been harder and harder to put on that tiara.”

Sundance just cuddled her. Not judging her for it. “You said it already: you’re Prowl of Rainclouds. Tiaras aren’t your thing.”

“Aren’t. At most, I’ll take the crest ornament Jazz got for me.” Even if the piece of jewelry was almost certainly stolen at least three times over. “I wish it didn’t involve disappointing so many people. Although, I suppose if this proves anything, it’s that Praxus will get along just fine without me.”

“Could you leave it, if it wouldn’t?” the cat asked, tilting her ears curiously.

“It would hurt terribly, but… yes. I think I would.” Praxus had a much bigger pool of resources to draw on when it came to finding someone to fill a given need than Polyhex did. The contribution of any one individual didn’t  _ not  _ matter, but she felt like she could do  _ more  _ for her clan than her kingdom. “I wouldn’t be much good to Praxus for long if I tried to stay anyway.”

Sundance meowed sadly. “Can’t do all the things.” 

“Not and do any of them well.” She had tried, she really had. In the end, Carcharhinidae had been right. “I can’t be of two worlds.”

There were no platitudes that could make Prowl feel better, and Sundance knew it. All she could do was be there, and let her know, “I will always be with you.”

“For which I am incredibly grateful.” Prowl stilled and just hugged her for a long moment, then resumed the gentle bath. “Stay with me until I’m asleep tonight? Before you go out hunting?”

“Alright.” She leaped up onto the bare berth. “But then I  _ am _ going hunting since  _ apparently _ I’m supposed to be eating more glitchmice.”

Prowl giggled and set the bowl aside where she wouldn’t trip over it, then got up and opened the window before going to dig her blanket out of her things. “You’ll have to let me know if there weren’t enough of them available, so we can tell Ratchet that his temple’s cleanliness is interfering with your health.”

“I will!” She snickered, licking her paw clean (despite having  _ just  _ been bathed!). Prowl had to be careful to avoid her while she made the bed. The talk of fuel reminded her that it had been quite a while since she’d had anything, so she dug out a ration and drank it before actually lying down and settling into sleep.

“Bet this will wind up being more of a nap than anything else.”

“Then nap,” Sundance said, crawling up to lay on Prowl’s chest. “At least there aren’t any wolves.”

“Not in here.” Prowl relaxed, safe to sleep without a watch for the first time in a decacycle. There were no howls in the distance. The only sound she could hear was her familiar’s purr.

.

.

.

Prowl did manage to sleep through dawn prayers, or at least she assumed so, because it was well after dawn when she was roused by a knock on the door. It sounded like someone who couldn’t decide whether they were trying to wake her up or be quiet enough not to disturb her.

“Enter,” she called out sleepily, drawing back the blanket and sitting up on the berth.

“Prowl?” a familiar voice called softly into the room as the door opened… right before Silverstreak barreled in. “Prowl!”

“Silverstreak!” Fully awake in an instant, Prowl swung her legs over the side of the berth and launched herself at her brother, arms outstretched to catch him in a hug. “Spirits and gods, it’s good to see you!”

“Oomph!”  _ Surprise _ and  _ shock _ flooded the prince’s EM field. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Prowl leaned back and found him looking at her arms around his shoulders, confusion on his face. “It’s a hug. I’m happy to see you.”

“Since when do you hug?”

A laugh drew Prowl’s attention to Arcee, lounging in the doorway.

“Arcee!” Prowl gave Silverstreak one more squeeze and then released him to go hug her as well. She wasn’t as confused as Silverstreak, though Prowl could still feel her puzzlement over it. 

“Silverstreak’s right,” Arcee said when Prowl’s arms loosened. “This isn’t like you.”

“I suppose it became more of a habit than I realized. Everyone greets each other with hugs in Polyhex.” Not to mention she’d been so scared for both of them!

Silverstreak smiled shyly. “I think I like it.”

“I’m glad it didn’t offend you.” It was too late to take it back, even if she’d wanted to. “And I’m glad you came to see me. I’m not sure when or where I’m to be at the moment.”

“The Prime’s making arrangements to introduce you to the Iaconi court,” Silverstreak said, “but we couldn’t wait until then to see you.”

“Either of us,” Arcee confirmed, releasing her. “Though we were rather surprised to hear of your arrival.” 

“I had to come,” Prowl said, explaining and defending simultaneously. “I received your letter when I arrived in Hightower,” she told Arcee, “and was told you were missing and the prince,” she looked to Silverstreak, “had been kidnapped when I reached the capital. I had no idea when or even if I’d ever see either of you again, so I…” 

“You… what? You’ve caused quite a stir. How did you even get here without anyone knowing it was you?!” 

No point in being embarrassed about it. In fact, Prowl had a distinctly Polyhexian urge to brag about it. “By coming alone, for one. It’s a lot faster to travel without a carriage, entourage, or guard contingent, though it does make one much less remarkable to arrive covered in road dust.”

Arcee chuckled. “Much the same way we arrived. After pulling my beloved out of the rebel camp the way back into Iacon was cut off, so we ended up following wolf-trails over the mountains. We were able to resupply in Dawntouch, a mining town that’s cut off from the rest of Iacon during the winter, and the roads down weren’t open yet. No messenger could get through any sooner than we could.”

“So you arrived unannounced and unrecognized too?” 

“Yes, but we didn’t go so far as to be assigned travel papers and almost be lodged in the public guest house,” Arcee teased while Silverstreak poked through Prowl’s things and looked under the bed. “Though the court will thank you for allowing yourself to go through a cleansing. We managed to avoid eating anything unsavory, but I know you have. I hope it wasn’t too arduous.”

“Where’s Sundance? Did you come without her?”

“She’d never let me do something like that,” Prowl promised the prince. “She’ll probably turn up any klik, now that you’re here. Treats trump glitchmice in her book, no matter what Ratchet says.”

“I should introduce you to someone while she’s gone.” he smiled shyly and sidled over to the door. “I know how much she likes dogs… but…” He held out his hand, beckoning, and a large turbohound poked his head in, leaning against it so that the prince could scratch his audial flaps. He looked at Prowl soulfully, as though asking if they were going to be friends and wagged his tail slowly. “His name is Lucky.”

“Hello, Lucky.” Prowl held out a hand, smiling when he came up to sniff and then lick it. He reminded her of the dog she and Sundance had encountered outside the city. “Is he yours? Part of your ‘pack’?”

“He,” Silverstreak’s engine hitched, and Arcee put a comforting hand on his back. “He came with me when I was taken, and stayed with me.”

Arcee, despite comforting Silverstreak, looked at Prowl consideringly. “You called him ‘pack’. Is that what they call such bonds in Polyhex?”

“Not in Polyhex, no, but I met a mech on my way here, waiting in the woods with his pack.” Maybe they hadn’t heard about his petition to the Prime if they had only just arrived themselves? “He said his name was—”

“Hound?” Ratchet poked his head into the room. Obviously he’d been eavesdropping, though it wasn’t like anyone had sent him away or closed to the door to prevent it. “You met Hound?”

“I, well, yes.” Prowl blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected Ratchet to know about him! “Lucky looks a little like his turbohound.”

“And a little like Tizzy and Kizzy, I imagine,” Arcee said thoughtfully. “They’re all Iaconi infantry hounds.”

“That would explain the resemblance, yes.” And if Arcee knew about Hound too, then, “He helped you follow the wolf-trails, didn’t he?”

“Hound’s a good person,” Ratchet insisted fiercely.

“He did,” Arcee said, waving at Ratchet to calm down. “The court’s in a bit of a tizzy over it.”

“Silverstreak!” a loud meow called out from the window. “You! You  _ traitor! _ Why do you have a dog?!”

“Sundance?” Silverstreak smiled, oblivious to her insults. “Hello! I missed you. Come here?” He wiggled his fingers hopefully.

“He has a dog because Lucky helped him endure his recent trial,” Prowl told her cat. “And, I suspect, because it’s looking like Iacon is just the nation of dogs and there’s no escaping them.”

The cat gave her a dirty look and turned her back on them with a “harumph”.

Arcee hugged a crestfallen Silverstreak. “I think we need to save all of the talking about Hound and Polyhexian magics for later, after Prowl’s been up for a bit. In the meantime, it looks like you have some groveling to do, beloved.”

“Apparently.”

“Polyhexian—” Ratchet looked quickly between Prowl and Sundance. “You’re the Praxan  _ princess,  _ aren’t you?! And there I was, mechhandling…” He broke off, muttering to himself too quietly for Prowl to make out the words. 

“A priest of Primus shouldn’t use such language,” Sundance meowed primly.

“Actually, on the subject of me being a princess,” Prowl said, jumping on the opening while she had the chance, “that may no longer be the case.”

All three of them blinked at her in silence. 

“What happened?” Silverstreak finally asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arcee declared. “Until Iacon gets the notice from Praxus’ king, we need to proceed as though you are, or risk offending our ally.”

Prowl didn’t have an argument for that. “You deserve to know though. That’s the reason I bothered with the travel papers and the public guest house,” she said with a wry smile. “I didn’t want to be here under false pretenses.”

“What  _ happened?” _ Silverstreak demanded.

She was reluctant to add to his stress, but he obviously wasn’t going to be put off. “When I returned to Praxus, King Bluestreak welcomed me back to court as his heir. My assumption before the formal announcement was that I would be fulfilling my capacity as the second heir until your… situation,” she generalized, “was resolved. Then he presented me at a banquet, where I was seated in your place.”

Silverstreak closed his optics and took a deep breath of air into his engine. His edges of his field went sharp before he pulled them back, and Arcee reached for him with concern. “Beloved?”

“He was declaring that Praxus would not negotiate,” the prince said evenly, understanding the same thing Prowl had. “I could not be used against the nation as a hostage.”

Lucky walked over and sat beside him, leaning into his leg. Sundance gave up her aloof act and leaped from the windowsill to Arcee and used her as a bridge to reach Silverstreak and nuzzle his helm.

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said. “And I’m incredibly grateful you’re no longer in rebel custody. The king and I argued about his decision after the banquet. He had me locked in my rooms to calm down and come to my senses. So I left.”

Silverstreak smiled at that, but it was strained. “I’m not sure that was smart, but I am glad you’re here. But I… I think I need some time to think, alright?”

“Of course. Whatever you need.” He’d already been through so much. Prowl wished there was more she could do to help him. “I’ll be here whenever you… well, I suppose I won’t be  _ here,  _ here, will I?” She turned to Arcee. “You’ll let me know where I’m to go?”

Arcee nodded. “Right now the plan is to lend you an entourage for your arrival at the palace temple gates. You’ll be presented to the court, then settled in a room. Then we’ll go from there.”

“Thank you. And please, let me know when you want to discuss the magic issue,” Prowl insisted. “After doing whatever I could to help find you both, answering your letter was the reason I came this way upon leaving the castle.”

“I definitely do want to go over that with you. Later, though. In private first, and then perhaps again to the Council of Bishops.” Arcee nudged Silverstreak towards the door. “It’s good to see you, Prowl.”

“And you, Arcee. Sundance, are you—”

“Staying with him,” her familiar meowed back. “Unless he wants me to leave.”

“Take Sundance with you,” she translated for her sibling. “She’s very good for hugs.”

“Thanks, sis.” Silverstreak pulled the willing cat down into his arms and held her tightly.

Prowl watched them leave, hoping Silverstreak would be alright. 

Ratchet, she noticed, didn’t leave. He stood there in the doorway, staring at her for a long moment in silence before stating bluntly, “You’re not what I expected.”

She blinked, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”

“Eh. Don’t be,” Ratchet waved off her apology. “What I was expecting wasn’t very flattering.”

Ooo~kay… “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Then don’t. But I do have a few questions if you’re willing.”

She had a feeling she’d be doing more than answering a few questions later. “I don’t promise to answer them,” she warned. She looked back at her bed. Her blankets were still covered in road dust and… was that tar that had seeped out of the crystals she’d been sleeping in? Ugh. “But if you show me to a trough or something where I can clean up my things,” and herself, because she’d slept in that and she was going to be presented to another court soon, “you can ask.”

“Sounds like a fair trade to me. This way,” Ratchet said, gesturing down the hall. Prowl grabbed her things and followed him out to a small courtyard. One side of it looked like it was used for storage, but the other side had a large basin already partially filled with water, soap, and an assortment of other things. “I’ve been working on getting the place back in shape since we returned. Things were left in a bit of a mess.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” she said diplomatically. She dunked her rope to get the dust off, then used it to make a line to dry things on. The Polyhexian-made fibers didn’t need any more care than that. The same was true of her tarp, her knives, and the rest of her gear from the islands. The most difficult part of this job was going to be the two blankets she’d taken from her berth in the castle. 

She tackled the sword first. The sheath — made by one of her clansmechs during the long, boring storm season stuck in the fire-riverbed caves — came clean with just the wipe of a damp cloth, much like the shell-containers containing the wake-light pigment and catalyst she set aside as a reminder she needed to do that later, but she had to be careful of the sword itself or it would rust, and it had to endure quite enough rust out on the  _ Rust _ Sea. 

Ratchet watched her work for a bit, then started working alongside her on his own things. It was interesting; he’d said he wanted to talk, but seemed reluctant to actually open a conversation. 

When he finally did ask his opening question, it wasn’t what Prowl had anticipated at all. “How was Hound when you met him?”

Prowl blinked. “He looked fine. We didn’t talk long.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s lived on his own for so long he’s not used to speaking our words. He talks to his pack instead, the way you talk with your familiar.” Ratchet looked at her, searching. “Is it a good life, living in the wilderness instead of in cities? The Prime-Ascendant said you had gone out to sea to live with your bondmate’s people, and that they are hunters too.”

Prowl was a little bit at a loss for how to answer that. “It’s not for everyone,” she admitted. “And Polyhex… it’s still a community. No one’s ever really left alone except as punishment.” Oops, maybe she shouldn’t have said that. “But if Hound’s happy, then it’s the right thing for him, I’m sure.”

Ratchet gave her a look that said he saw right through her attempt at softening the blow. “I don’t know that what’s ‘right’ for him is truly possible. Well. I say ‘right’ when I should probably be more concerned with what will make things ‘better’. I’m sure you don’t want to go over everything twice, but what you’ve come to discuss with the Prime-Ascendent could have a significant impact on his life.”

“He won’t ever leave his pack,” Prowl felt the need to say. “He can’t. It’d be like cutting out part of his own spark.” Just like Prowl would never leave Sundance. She was just lucky her spirit had proven to be a small, if fierce,  _ domestic _ mechanimal, and not one of her culture’s primal symbols of evil.

“I know that, now.” There was a ghost of pain and weariness in his optics that said it hadn’t been an easy journey to reach that conclusion, but his acceptance of it was genuine. “Too many others wouldn’t see it that way though, especially here in Iacon. Unless attitudes toward other kinds of magic change.”

“I will be truthful in my answers to the Prime-Ascendant’s questions,” Prowl assured, satisfied that the sword was clean and dry and only needed to be set aside until the sheath was as well. She put it out of the way and started on the blankets. “But I need to protect my clan, and,” she admitted, “I am no hero, god, or guiding star; just a mortal femme with a for-now mortal spirit. I can’t know everything.”

“No mortal can know everything. The pursuit of knowledge is a virtue, but it is also an endless quest. Much like scrubbing dishes,” Ratchet added, looking down into the soapy water and all the things still in it. “I wouldn’t ask you to go against your conscience. I only encourage you not to be afraid to say things that contradict popular belief, because some of those beliefs are wrong. Of course,” he chuckled, and now there was a twinkle in his optic when he glanced back up at her, “if you’re willing to run out on a king because he locked you in your room, you probably don’t need any encouragement from me.”

“I ran out on my king because he was  _ wrong,” _ Prowl muttered fiercely. She was Prowl of Rainclouds and she was not going to change her mind because she’d been put in  _ time out _ like a newling!

“And good for you for doing it,” Ratchet said. “As someone who has spent far too much time agonizing over right and wrong and accomplishing a whole lot of nothing in the process, I will firmly advocate action when you have that conviction.”

Slowly, bit by bit, the tar on the blankets came free. She even hit them with the prestidigitation spell a few times to help work the crud loose. They would never be fit for a princess’s berth again, but they'd be serviceable once they dried. She thought that, at one point, she’d have felt guilty for effectively stealing them, but she didn’t now. She’d needed them, and Praxus had very much offended her. Either was justification enough for taking them, much less both. 

“You could go visit him,” Prowl eventually suggested while hanging the finally clean blankets up to dry. “He won’t be outside Iac— the First City forever, but I’m sure there are smaller villages you could go meet near, ones in places that have prey for his pack. At least during part of the vorn.” 

“I’ve thought about that, but… what about taking him out to sea?” Ratchet countered, stacking his clean dishes on the shelf. “He’d be happier with other hunters.” He didn’t look happy with his own suggestion.

“I could,” Prowl admitted evenly. “The clan would welcome another pack-leader, but it’d be logistically difficult if it’s even what he wants. And,” she lowered her voice, “it may not be a long term solution for Iacon.” For the whole of the mainland, in fact. Magic, apparently, would do whatever it wanted regardless of how mortals felt about it. “Hound may not be the only one.”

Ratchet huffed, bristling like an offended cat. “I looked through  _ every one _ of the histories—!”

“And if Hound’s affinity had been with zap ponies, or cybercats, or even glitchmice, songbirds, crystal plants… or turbohounds,” she added, thinking of Drift, thinking of Iacon’s entire tradition of huntmasters, “rather than turbowolves, would anyone have even noticed?”

That seemed to strike a chord with Ratchet. Perhaps he already suspected someone else he knew of having animal magic. He fell silent.

Half in apology, and half just to have something to do while her things dried, Prowl started scrubbing dishes too.

.

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	7. Part Six

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.

.

Being introduced to the Iaconi court was not fundamentally different from being welcomed into Praxus’. Prowl “arrived” with her borrowed entourage, was escorted into the main hall of the temple/palace, presented to the Prime, then dismissed to her rooms with a prayer. Having endured a thorough polish before the ceremony, Prowl chased out all of the attendants after it. She didn’t need to endure their persistent offers of a repaint, no matter how much everyone seemed to think she needed one! 

Arcee thought it hilarious when she arrived. Prowl brushed off her laughter and set things up to paint the wake light paint on while she answered the Prime-Ascendant’s questions about Polyhexian magic, not caring that it was somewhat rude to appear as though she wasn’t giving the discussion her full attention. 

“I have a book for you,” Prowl said, while Arcee settled down on the neatly made bed, which was the only place to sit that had a good view of the mirror. “I’d get it now but,” she wiggled her pigment-stained fingers in demonstration. Arcee nodded her understanding. “Don’t let me leave without giving it to you.”

“I will not.”

Satisfied that Auroram’s journal would be left in good hands, Prowl went back to her painting. “So… questions.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about ‘lightning scent’?” Arcee asked first, and Prowl tilted her head curiously and she met her friend’s optics in the mirror. Acee’s EM field blushed slightly. “It’s something Hound said: that some of the rebels and even Hot Rod and Ratchet and I all had a ‘lightning scent’ but Drift didn’t. None of us have been able to figure out what he meant. I have literally been wondering for months, but I can’t find anything about scents in any of our archives, except that demons are supposed to smell like fire and rot.”

Prowl snorted inelegantly, then focused again on her reflection as she went to paint the first line. Jazz had described the stripes on a fishing cat’s forehead to her once, and while she didn’t want to invoke the bad luck drawing a fishing cat would cause her, she  _ did  _ want an homage to her bondmate, so she painted a single line down the center of her helm crest and a pattern of dots on either side.  _ “Mitnesimeage!” _ she chanted as she mixed the two components and activated the glow. Then she considered the Prime-Ascendant’s question. “Some Polyhexians have quite good senses of smell,” she said, leaving aside the spells that could temporarily grant enhanced senses even to someone who didn’t have them. “Having something — or some _ one _ — described solely by their scent when I could detect nothing myself took some getting used to.”

Arcee looked vaguely relieved. “It’s bizarrely reassuring to hear you had issues with that as well.”

Prowl laughed and, inspired by the motion, put two dots on her throat above her collar faring before drawing the line down the center of her chest where it would open for her bondmate. “So you, Hot Rod, and Ratchet…” she paused. “He was probably smelling the magic. The three of you, and presumably the rebels he singled out, are all mages. I’ve heard a lot of spellcasters described as smelling like lightning.” And those that weren’t, smelled like fire and molten rock. Keahi’s mountain… which, now that Prowl was thinking it,  _ also _ was associated with lightning. 

“The rebels he singled out were…” Arcee trailed off and started over. “So, this lightning scent. Is it the same for all magic, divine, arcane and even heretic rebel magic?”

“Just because they aren’t Primus-worshipers doesn’t make them heretics,” Prowl retorted over her shoulder. 

To which Arcee smiled gently. “I know. But that’s what others will say, and I need to know how to defend Hound.”

Prowl turned back to the mirror and considered her shoulder pauldrons. She couldn’t make squiggles or curves; she was supposed to make straight lines, follow the contours of her armor, or make dots (accidental splashes or drips were okay too). She wanted an attractive pattern! “I don’t know if arcane and divine magic have a scent difference. Polyhexians don’t categorize magic the same way we do. But if we’re talking about Hound… Let me tell you,” she said slowly, “about pack-leaders. They are rare and valued as warriors, protectors, and mediators…”

As they talked, Prowl got the distinct impression that Arcee had made some discoveries about the potential variety of “wild” magics for herself since she’d written her letter, for she asked her questions with open curiosity rather than shock or disbelief. Interesting that she asked  _ specifically _ about spirit possessed warriors like Jazz who could also cast arcane spells. Prowl admitted that she knew one; maybe two. She didn’t know if the pack-summoning Chromia did was similar enough to count, but when she began describing it (in general terms only, avoiding specifics), Arcee turned the conversation to voice-magics too quickly for it to be a completely novel concept. Where had she come across such magic on the mainland? Prowl  _ knew _ mainland mages and clerics could do no such thing! 

Arcee waved off her questions. “I’ll tell you next cycle. It’s better if you’re not tailoring your words to mine. That is, if you’re willing to speak to the Council of Bishops about all this? I can convey my conviction, but you could actually answer their questions.”

Prowl paused her painting to consider. She had spoken in court before, true, but Praxus didn’t have a  _ council. _ “I don’t know,” she hedged, though she couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t. Maybe she’d dream of sharkticons that told her not to, but for now… “What can you tell me about the council session?”

“You’ll be one of several experts,” Arcee assured. “As Praxus’ princess, you’d speak right before me, but it really will be your experience on the islands you’d be there to talk about.”

“And will my experiences still carry weight with the council without the rank of princess behind them?”

“You have that rank,” Arcee insisted, standing up from her perch on the berth to pace over to the mirror with Prowl. She hesitated, then patted Prowl’s arm a little awkwardly in a spot that did not have new, glowing paint on it. “But that’s not why you’re going to be there. I want an expert on Polyhexian magic there, the Prime concurs, and that’s all there is to it.”

Prowl smiled, touched by the show of support even if she was only an expert by mainland standards. “If you think it will make that much of a difference. My only concern is whether a change in my status after the fact could undermine what I say to the council. I am aware of my current status,” in Iacon, at least; who knew what the king had decreed since her escape in Praxus, what declarations were racing to catch up with her, “but I am also confiding in you a delicate truth: that status is far from as secure as it once was.”

“The council will sit down and listen to  _ Ricochet _ if I told them to,” Arcee retorted hotly. Her plating bristled.

“Spirits and gods forfend,” Prowl laughed at the very thought. “Amusing as that would be, however, you know it wouldn’t work. Bias against the source of information can bias an audience against the information itself. They wouldn’t take her seriously, as they may come not to take  _ me  _ seriously, and this is too important a matter to ignore that possibility.”

“They would take her — any you — seriously. They have to.” Arcee sighed, giving up the fight though obviously not her stance. She backed away to perch again on the berth. “You’ll see, or you won’t. Either way, don’t worry about it so much.”

“You know the Council better than I do,” Prowl could admit. Perhaps it really wouldn’t make a difference. She would still worry about it, because she couldn’t  _ not  _ worry, but she’d been honest about the risk and Arcee still wanted her to speak. “They’re bound to ask things I don’t know the answers to.”

_ “I _ didn’t know animal spirits could grant arcane magic,” Arcee retorted. “Or that magic smelled like lightning.”

“Well, of course, but I doubt it will go over very well if I just tell them no one knows everything when I’m supposed to know what I’m talking about.” Prowl frowned. She knew Arcee wasn’t a diplomat, but really! “If I’m going to speak before the Council I’d prefer to know beforehand what approach to take and be prepared for potential pushback.”

Arcee’s plating smoothed down. “This isn’t a decision-making session. You’ll get some pointed and maybe hostile questions, but your job is primarily to inform, not to convince. Admitting that you don’t know something won’t count against you in any way. No mortal can know all of Creation.”

Inform, not convince. Prowl relaxed too, only now realizing how she’d let her frustration show in her frame. “I think we’ve been talking about two different kinds of politics,” she said. “I don’t know that I could name a time I’ve been able to engage in a formal discussion that wasn’t a debate.”

“No? You’ve never been asked to give your nobles a briefing on magic to help them and the king decide, oh,” Arcee shrugged, “I don’t know, the placement of a new branch of a mage’s school or the design of a new telescope or…” She trailed off, struggling to think of something else Prowl could have consulted on.

“Not without an accompanying political agenda to push,” Prowl replied. Public speaking had always been mired in the nastier side of politics for her. “Perhaps it would be better if you explained more of how such meetings are conducted here before I make any more assumptions.” 

“Well you’ll be happy to know there  _ is _ an accompanying political agenda,” Arcee teased. She patted the berth next to her, indicating Prowl should sit, then realized she was still on the berth and jumped up quickly to move to the chair, dragging it over. “This isn’t, directly, a debate about Polyhexians. Iacon already has a codified stance on them thanks to your previous adventures. But by injecting this information into this context, the Prime and I are forcing the Council of Archbishops to consider the rebels’ magic, Hound, ultimately all non standard magics, in the same light.”

“A positive light, I hope.” Prowl added one last set of marks to her arms, then put away her paints and brought her bag over to settle on the berth. The whole process seemed, even just on the surface, very different from Praxus’ political system. In Praxus, lesser nobles, merchants, or bureaucrats brought their concerns to the local governing nobility. If they couldn’t be handled at that level, then they brought their concerns to the capital where they traded favors, made alliances, or started feuds with other nobles. Ultimately the king had the final say on the largest issues, and the nobles all tried to maneuver into positions to advise the king when they could. “Experts” seldom spoke directly to those making the decisions, much less the king, and then only on an individual basis. Meetings between nobles in Praxus were about persuading or undercutting opponents to sway decisions, not gathering information. “Even though they won’t actually be making that decision right away?”

“Right,” Arcee continued, “as I said: this isn’t a decision-making session. You and a number of experts on the topic will stand before the Council and present your information. You’ll be given two chances to speak. For the first, just tell them about Polyhexian magic and its various weird manifestations. The Council will ask questions. Some will be hostile, but,” Arcee said again, “they  _ will _ listen to you. In the second round you will be given a chance to rebut points made by the other experts, clarify things they said in light of your own expertise, or just repeat points you’d like to emphasize. Over the next few cycles, the Council will deliberate on what was presented and decide whether to withdraw from Kaon’s trouble. As for what to do about mainland magic suddenly going wild……” she sighed. “Optimus does not believe that will be resolved in his lifetime.”

“As complex as the matter is, I’m inclined to agree with him.” Prowl forced herself to take a deep breath and then let it go.  _ You can’t do all the things.  _ She was a Polyhexian warrior and needed to get back to the islands for the war season; the mainland would have to take care of itself. “If my involvement is truly limited to one session, I am willing to attend.” She would just need to be circumspect in what she revealed about Polyhex in her presentation.

“Thank you. You are doing a service to Iacon and Praxus both.” Arcee watched keenly while Prowl found her ketzal feather and dog shark spine armband. Prowl could see her friend was very curious about the ornament, but she didn’t ask. 

“If it’s better to wait until the Council session to go into detail about magic,” Prowl prompted, “would it be alright if we went outside? I’ve seen very little of the First City.”

“We will have to ensure you are given a full tour before you leave then.” Arcee seemed relieved to leave the room as well. “There are many works of art scattered through the city, and the main temple has some of the most beautiful architecture in the world. Our gardens are not as splendid as Praxus’, perhaps, but the fountain in the main courtyard, where the three sections of the temple join together is worth a look at least.” She opened the door and Prowl saw that the hall was well lit, and empty. No guards?

“It’s just,” she gestured at the empty halls when she saw Arcee giving her a look, “that I’ve seen so little security, even here at the heart of the city.”

“Oh. The palace guards are a contingent of the army. I told them to back off and let you be with as much freedom as possible.” Arcee grinned a little crookedly. “I didn’t want you climbing out the windows. There’s a guard station with a full response group at the entrance to this floor. They could hear if you called for them.” She set off down the hall toward the stairs, either to show Prowl said guard station or just to get down to the garden. 

_ I wonder how hard it would be to really climb out the windows here…  _ Prowl shook away the all too Jazz-like thought and followed her friend through the beautiful temple halls. Jazz would have had so much fun picking up all of these things to look at them.

She missed Jazz terribly.

They did pass the guard station next to the stairs. Arcee greeted the mech there by name — “Good evening, Flow.” “Prime-Ascendant!” — and showed her the room with, as promised, a whole mini-barracks just for this floor. Prowl blinked because the door looked just like the ones to the other guest rooms and she wouldn’t have known this one was different if it hadn’t been pointed out. 

At the bottom of the stairs they passed another, identical guard station. This lower area, filled with offices it seemed, was patrolled, though infrequently to Prowl’s optics. They passed a third guard station, this one more obvious, before Arcee led her out into the main temple. 

Even at this late hour there were mechs — priests and merchants and laborers and soldiers — here praying. 

“So this is the main temple,” Arcee said, sounding torn between awkwardness and pride and waving her hand to show off the space. “You saw it earlier.”

“Yes. It’s beautiful.” Prowl took a moment to look around again, taking in the architecture. It really was one of the most beautiful structures she’d ever seen. The palace in Praxus was maybe more impressive for its sheer height and size, but the level of detail in the mosaic-work here was… stunning. “And it’s wonderful that everyone is welcome to enjoy it.”

“It’s the temple. That’s its purpose.” Arcee bristled, but she wasn’t looking at Prowl as she did so. “It’s not a treasure to be hoarded; it is the central location of our faith.”

“I can honestly say I had no idea how central faith was to Iaconi life,” Prowl said. Ironically, she’d learned more about how deeply religion could become intertwined with every facet of life in Polyhex. “Temples in Praxus are more… compartmentalized.”

“I noticed.” Arcee chuckled. “Do you want to go straight to the fountain, or circle through the rest of the triune first? You saw a bit of the Halls of Healing…” 

“If you have time, I’d love to see the rest of the triune first.”

Throughout the tour, Prowl continued to be amazed at just how much access the public had to the grounds, and by extension to those living within. As the sky started to darken the few soldiers she saw began the process of herding people out of the gardens and into the temple buildings themselves, so no one approached them, but it was fairly clear to Prowl that a determined someone  _ could. _ One guard was even helping a newling finish digging up his new dog from the hot spot before escorting him off of the grounds.

“And to think,” she remarked as they walked, “my wedding to Jazz was the first time anyone less than true nobility was allowed inside the main castle in Praxus.”

“This,” Arcee nodded to a group of laborers solemnly shuffling out after visiting a sick cohort member in a recovery chapel, “has been Optimus’ life's work, the work of centuries. Zeta, his predecessor, was a hard mech who chafed under the treaties Nova had been forced to sign during the last Succession War. I intend to carry on his work and do my best to continue gentling our policies where I can, but… ”

“But it’s a process,” Prowl finished. It was heartening to her to see Iacon heading in that direction, setting an example Praxus could follow as it took its own fledgling steps, but Arcee’s countenance had taken a somber cast. “Is something wrong?”

“Just that I am so very glad Silverstreak has you for a sister. He was touched beyond measure that you came for him.”

That sounded somewhat like a diversion to Prowl, but it let her ask, “How is he? Really?”

“He has his sister’s strength of will,” Arcee said proudly. She opened a silver plated, wrought iron gate to lead them away from the buildings and deeper into the gardens around the center, towards the promised courtyard and fountain. Most of the crystal trees were a hardy sort of quartz which sparkled around the clean, well lit paths. “But finding that Praxus wasn’t planning to come after him… I’m worried for him. I don’t want to stifle him, though. He said he could use some time alone. He does have Lucky with him, so at least if there’s trouble, the guards will be summoned.”

“I’m glad he’s found a companion that appeals to him.” 

“So am I. What he went through… it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been,” Arcee said like she was reminding herself of that as much as telling Prowl, “but it was hard on him.”

“Was hard on her too,” Sundance meowed, appearing from the darkness beneath the crystal trees at the edge of the lit path. 

Prowl nodded in agreement, bending down to let her cat climb her. “And you? How have you been holding up?” she asked Arcee.

Arcee didn’t answer right away. Instead they walked into another artfully landscaped outdoor space. This must be their destination. The courtyard was enclosed by three walls covered in weathered gold lettering and in the center was an elaborate fountain of crystal and magic lights depicting two turbohounds locked in battle. One was strong with smooth plating, lit in white light, and was surrounded by faceless glowing and winged helmets. The other, emaciated and vicious, was lit from within the smoky crystal by red magelight. The carving almost dripped with menace and righteousness. 

“Honestly?” Arcee looked around, checking that they were alone before revealing, “With some difficulty. When they took him… It wasn’t like Jazz spiriting you off harmlessly in the night. They wrenched him away with violence right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it. The reasons I gave for pursuing immediately, myself, weren’t invalid, but they were only part of why I had to do it. I suspect that Drift and Hot Rod would rather never go on a chase through the forest with me again, after having to put up with me in such a state twice.”

Prowl couldn’t help herself; she stepped forward and hugged Arcee tightly. She felt Sundance leap down off her shoulder over her back. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Arcee wrapped her arms around Prowl and hugged back, leaning into the support. “Thank you,” she said, voice thick with gratitude. “I’ve had so many responsibilities to stay on top of, so many people to be strong for, and there just hasn’t been  _ time.”  _ She drew in a breath, steadying herself. Prowl felt honored to know she was one of the people Arcee thought strong enough to handle her moment of weakness… brief as it was. “I will be alright, but the fear I had to put on hold along the way to keep functioning is bombarding me with how close we came to failing, and how catastrophic it would have been.”

“Catastrophe avoided though.” Prowl could understand the desire to dwell on such things. She had done quite a bit of it the last few vorns. “The gods have seen you through.”

“That’s another new habit, isn’t it? In addition to the hugging,” Arcee said, squeezing her arms around Prowl again. “You never used to invoke ‘the gods’ before.”

Prowl chuckled, not quite nervously. “I wasn’t really a believer. I thought the gods…  _ probably _ existed, since clerics prayed for spells and they were granted, but…” How could she  _ explain _ Keahi? Or Carcharhinidae?

"But... something happened in Polyhex?" Arcee prompted as Sundance slipped out into the crystals to hunt.

Prowl hesitated. She had promised her patron god, her clan, and herself not to be careless with information about Polyhex.

"I hope you don't think you need to fear me accusing you of heresy," Arcee said, pulling out of the hug and walking farther into the small garden toward the fountain. "Heathen, maybe," she said with a smile over her shoulder, "but it seems to suit you."

“It’s not that,” though it was immensely good to hear. Nevermind that a heathen and a heretic had been one and the same for so long in Iacon that Arcee was using a Praxan loan word to make the distinction. Prowl could take the reassurance in the manner it had been meant. It wasn’t easy reminding herself not to say something as reflexive as ‘spirits and gods’. It helped, speaking Iaconian rather than Praxan or Polyhexian, but it was still a constant, tiring thing. “I just... decided I need to be cautious and think before,” totally disrupting the balance of multiple societies by accident, “talking about certain things.” 

Luckily Arcee wasn't offended by her caution. "Words, once spoken, can never be unsaid. I'd love to hear anything you feel comfortable telling me though. Your time in Polyhex has changed you greatly."

“It couldn’t not.” The things she’d seen… She didn’t know who she could trust them to, but she couldn’t think of anyone safer to confide in than her friend. As long as she didn’t talk about how Keahi’s treasure hunt affected the islanders economically, she could share a  _ few  _ details. “I witnessed something,” several somethings, really, “that I can only call the work of a god,” Prowl said slowly. She looked down at her hands and noticed she was trembling. “Not Primus or any of the Guiding hand; it was... was…” How could she explain? How could she possibly explain? “Fire,” Prowl finally whispered.

"Fire?" Arcee repeated, understandably not comprehending the magnitude of the single word. "What kind of fire?"

“Divine fire. Great, terrible fountains of fire hot enough to melt rock so it flowed over the ground like the sea, burning everything, everything in its path — it was so  _ loud!  _ The roar of the mountain as it threw up terrible, terrible thunderclouds of choking ash…” Now that she’d started the words spilled out one after another almost against her will. She was more than trembling now. “I thought the world was ending, and now part of the island is just gone. The wounds will take  _ vorns _ to heal...”

Arcee's optics flared, overbright. "Fire enough to destroy part of an entire island?"

“Yes. Arcee, I was so scared—” Prowl couldn’t help herself any longer and she threw her arms around her friend, hugging her tightly again. “I’ve never been so scared.”

This time Arcee held her, and the  _ shock/incredulity _ in her field made way for  _ comfort/reassurance. _ "I can't even imagine," she said softly, stroking Prowl with the same gentle kindness she'd shown back when they were betrothed. "I'm so glad you survived."

“The... the priest-mages knew it was coming. They said Keahi was digging and made sure everyone was away from it, but…” Prowl sniffled, grateful for Arcee’s support. It wasn’t like she’d been bereft of comfort at the time. Jazz and everyone else had offered hugs and cuddles and comfort freely, but they didn’t  _ understand. _ By their own admission the damage had been worse than usual, but they were familiar with Keahi’s treasure hunts. The experience wasn’t so completely unparalleled for them. “You can dismiss Polyhexian religion as worship of mere ‘nature spirits’ if you wish, but what I saw,” all of it, from Keahi’s beautiful, terrible fire to Carcharhinidae’s ultimatum, “was a god.”

"I would have said that's impossible, once. Now..." Arcee sighed. "This isn't about theological tedium. Your experience is no less real because we have different views on what constitutes god and divinity. I can understand the impact of momentous experiences without casting judgment on how they are explained. Again: I'm  _ extremely _ grateful that you — that everyone — was spared."

“I’ve been trying to understand it,” Prowl admitted. “I’ve been looking at the rocks, the stones, trying to find any evidence at all that such things ever happened on the mainland as well... But Primus is not a vengeful god. Neither is Keahi,” she said softly, “but the islanders believe her indifferent, equally uninterested in punishment and appeasement. Nothing stops her when she sees something she wants...” whether that was a new treasure or a new husband.

"And this 'Keahi'," Arcee said with only slightly off pronunciation, "is their god of such fire?"

“Yes...” Prowl thought about it, then amended, “...and not quite. She’s the goddess of all fire, though candles and hearths are usually considered the domain of her servitor-gods, collectively called her hounds. Because they’re turbodogs,” Prowl said with a spark of humor before Arcee could ask why they were called that. “Great, big turbohounds that could eat a femme in just two chomps of their jaws, but are generally friendly and tame, if a little capricious.”

Arcee chuckled. "Giant turbodogs. Drift and Hound both would probably love to meet such a creature."

“It’s theoretically possible.” Prowl didn’t let go of Arcee, but her trembling was beginning to ease. It helped to finally talk about this to someone other than Sundance. “Certain mages are said to be possessed by individual giant turbodogs when they come too close to a developing spark and merge with it. That bond grants the mage great intuitive understanding of magic — especially fire magic.” 

"If it’s a benign possession, that would only enable meeting with the mage, not the turbodog itself, wouldn’t it? I've met Jazz, even fought against her spirit, but I still have absolutely no idea what a water cat actually looks like."

“It’s a surprisingly small creature, given how fierce the twins are. Perhaps only twice the size of a shipcat, and very secretive,” Prowl said, going off the twin’s descriptions and the scant number of drawings she’d seen. “It’s bad luck to draw one unless you are one, so there aren’t very many pictures.” Feeling a little wobbly still, she sat down on the edge of the fountain and trailed her hand in the perfectly clear water. This water, clear as glass, so prevalent here in Iacon (idly, Prowl wondered if it was snowmelt or magically conjured), was beautiful, but she missed the bright, life-giving red of the Rust Sea. “Perhaps you’re right about Keahi’s hounds, but I cannot say. All Polyhexians are affected by their spirits, but few potential spirits are as strong as the hounds, and fewer still are with their mages for as long. I can’t imagine what it would be like for my spark to be literally one with such a creature...” Prowl was only an un-humble shipcat.

"Whereas they probably can't imagine not being so bound. Not unlike twins, or those who emerge with the Calling burning so brightly in them that there's hardly a need to divine their path." Arcee chuckled softly, sitting next to Prowl. "You know, those of the deepest faith sometimes struggle the most with the injustices of the world. They  _ know, _ on a level that cannot be challenged, that Primus is good, and so become greatly disturbed when they encounter something that seems to contradict that."

“Oh?” That didn‘t sound much like the problem Prowl was having, coming to terms with the raw power of such displays as Keahi’s fire or even her own experience of her and others on the Island of the Gods, but Arcee had lived with faith, with knowing her god existed, much longer than Prowl had.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be admitting this," Arcee said, but this time her furtive look around was put on, played up for effect, "but despite being identified as Prime-Ascendant when I was harvested, I do not have an especially personal connection with Primus. Not because I don't have faith; my belief in Him and His mission has never been in doubt. But I don't have the constant  _ awareness _ that some do of His presence." She sounded at peace with that fact rather than defensive, but Prowl suspected that peace had been a trial for her to attain. "Some hold Primus so close in their spark that a crisis of identity and a crisis of faith are one and the same."

A crisis of faith and a crisis of identity… “I suppose what I went through is a little like that in reverse. I’d always thought the world was a purely rational place, and it sent me reeling to witness something so obviously divine.” Finding faith rather than losing it, as it were. “It’s hard.”

"It is. The reality that the world we live in is both rational  _ and _ divine is hard, no matter which side of that reality you're coming from when it hits you." Arcee smiled. "We all spend a lifetime trying to achieve some measure of balance between those two things, handicapped by imperfect understanding."

“I think it might help if you worship nature gods,” Prowl teased, though part of her was serious. She couldn’t imagine Jazz or Ricochet ever suffering such a crisis of faith. The sea — Moana — could not be denied. All of the sailors talked about Moana having moods, and even with her relatively limited time on the water, Prowl believed it. “And the stories can be quite fun.”

"I do find the stories of these nature spirits you bring back fascinating."

“Well then.” Prowl chuckled. She knew a set of stories guaranteed not only to fascinate but to shock her! “Most of the stories of Keahi aren’t about blowing up islands. That’s something she does, but her  _ stories _ are almost all about her kidnapping and seducing mortals to become her mates.”

Sure enough,  _ shock _ flooded Arcee's field. "Primus, what is  _ with _ these people and their obsession with romantic kidnappings?"

Prowl laughed. “It’s how things are done! What’s with,” she said rhetorically,  _ ”mainlanders _ and their obsession with long, drawn-out marriage ceremonies that take up most of the cycle and invite  _ so many _ people to witness something that should be a private devotion? Or,” she added, flicking her doors uncomfortably, “with letting strangers wash and paint their plating?”

"To the first," Arcee said with a wry  _ you-know-this-perfectly-well _ look, "royal weddings are about politics, not private devotions, and the majority of the populace have much more subdued ceremonies that allow for more intimate contemplation of the commitment they're making. As to the second..." She trailed off, seemingly at a loss. "What's wrong with that?"

“It’s invasive,” Prowl insisted. “Washing isn’t exactly  _ private _ on the islands, but everyone has a small, close circle of friends who help them with it. The activity is as much about reinforcing social bonds as getting clean and painted.” She avoided mentioning that those circles were small in part because of the smallness of the clans. Outside of Rainclouds, Prowl only felt close enough to Stepper and Chromia to let them help her. She wasn’t sure they felt the same, but she hoped so, honestly, because she really liked both of them.

"And we have a small contingent of familiar servants here," Arcee said, not seeing the difference.

Prowl wasn’t sure how to explain. The fact was that cleaning and painting were just intimate, and the clans so small... “On the islands, it’s the equivalent of baring your spark. Not merging,” though there was plenty of that going on too, “just opening up and letting someone peer inside. Is that something you want to do with your servants?”

Arcee blanched. "No. Absolutely not."

“But it would be alright with Silverstreak. What about...” Prowl tried to think of someone else Arcee might feel comfortable with that sort of intimacy. It would be rather arrogant to ask if she herself counted... “Drift?” She’d never been really sure that Arcee hadn’t been interfacing with her guards. Not once she’d come to Praxus for the engagement, of course, but before that... “Or Hot Rod?”

"Either of them, yes," Arcee agreed, the pause before her answer enough to suggest that no, she hadn't. "It seems counterintuitive to me though. How can bathing be so intimate when everyone greets each other with hugs?"

“I don’t truly know. Perhaps because a hug is brief, while cleaning often involves picking sand and ash and worse out of the seams between plating with your claws?” Prowl made an illustrative gesture with her fingers, like Jazz picking at Keahi’s ash with her claws to chip off the rock it had hardened into. It was the first explanation she could grasp at that didn’t touch on how small and vulnerable the clans were. It was even true, insofar as how touching someone from another clan was considered intimate.

"But then, what do they do when they need detailing and none of their circle is available?"

“Reschedule,” Prowl said bluntly, “but it’s a pretty unlikely situation. Polyhexian social circles might be small but their— their sphere of intimacy is still larger than ours, and detailing is never a daily thing, even for the highest-ranked. Polyhexian finishes are  _ durable, _ and a repaint isn’t a snap decision.”

"Really? But how could..." Something clearly had her confused, but Arcee just shook her head. "Nevermind. Are full repaints actually uncommon then, in Polyhex? Every time I see Jazz she's wearing new paint."

“The ones you saw in Praxus she was forced to do for our marriage ceremony,” Prowl pointed out with amusement. The ones in Hightower had been before and after Jazz getting a friend of hers to give her a full repaint before kidnapping Prowl to impress her. And of course she’d needed new paint after the vorn she’d spent mourning on that tiny island, basically alone. “Jazz is a special case. Let me put it this way: how often do you need a full repaint, even if you don’t change colors?” Since Iaconi paint was the same as Praxan, “At least once a month, right?” Prowl, guessed. “With touch-ups more often than that?”

"Unless I'm traveling, yes."

“Right, because it fades or gets scratched quickly and it wouldn’t do to be seen with imperfections.” Her own servants had insisted she get a touch up once every few cycles, and before special events. “The islands don’t adhere to such strict standards. On average, a Polyhexian might get a full repaint — and yes, change their colors — maybe once a vorn, and they don’t really  _ do  _ touch-ups.” 

"But surely, if they wait for an entire  _ vorn _ they must wind up looking rather ragged by the end?"

They did, but not in the way Arcee was probably picturing. “Their finish, that wax I use, doesn't scratch or chip easily. There’s a reason Hightower doesn’t export what little the merchants there do acquire.” Prowl laughed softly, remembering just how difficult it had been to get more of it when she was living in the palace, even as the princess. “And they custom make their colors for each repaint. They spend  _ cycles _ making sure they have the exact shade they want, and the results are beautiful, but it makes matching colors later for touch-ups incredibly difficult.” Especially given the way Polyhexian colors changed over time through sun exposure. “It also gives them plenty of time to arrange for a suitable acquaintance to help them apply the colors when they’re ready.”

"That... sounds like an incredible amount of work.” Arcee looked thoughtful. “Couldn’t they buy more consistent colors in Hightower? Perhaps bring more of the wax to trade, or even the recipe?"

Prowl actually knew the recipe, but she had no idea if such things as wera or the crystal from which she and Wheeljack had harvested the pitch or any of the other ingredients were even to be found on the mainland. She wasn’t going to say that though. Instead, she said, “They aren’t interested in matching dye lots, and they know the wax is a much-desired item here. They already sell what they can spare.”

"Ah. I suppose it's only fitting something so effective would be rare, and that they would supply themselves first."

“Rightly so,” Prowl said firmly. She would  _ never _ advocate the islands going without something they needed to sell to the mainland. Never. That was one of the things Carcharhinidae had warned her a treaty would bring to her people, and how devastating it would be to island culture and ecology. “So do you want to hear some of the stories about Keahi’s husbands? They range quite widely from dramatic or even comedic, to romantic or pornographic.”

"Pornographic?" Arcee gave her an arch look. "You may skip those, thank you very much."

Prowl chuckled, expecting that. “Alright. How about the story of Foam, who was so favored by Moana, he could not drown. The sea even made every cloud or storm or bringer of rain that crossed his surface promise never to harm Foam. No animal that swam, dove, or hunted in the water could harm Foam. No crystal that grew in or near the water could harm Foam. Which was a good thing, because,” Prowl didn’t pause for dramatic effect to prevent priming her audience for the punchline, “Foam was about as smart as a crate of rocks.”

Arcee's engine made a choked sound as she fought back a surprised laugh.

“He was clumsy as well,” Prowl continued with an amused wiggle of her doors. “He’d trip over nothing and land face-first in puddles. But because the puddle could not harm him, he would stand up not only uninjured but perfectly clean as well. One cycle, on one of her few forays out of her mountain home, Keahi saw this beautiful blue and white vision of loveliness and desired him instantly. She began laying plans for taking him, not knowing of either his idiocy nor the sheer refusal of any form of water to harm him.” 

"I imagine this lack of awareness caused her some difficulty?"

“Oh yes.” It had also struck Prowl as odd that Keahi would not know about someone so favored by one of the few deities that could equal her in power, but when she’d asked about the discrepancy the only answer she’d received was that Keahi was fire. Arcee didn’t seem bothered by it, so Prowl grinned and told her every one (that she remembered) of Keahi’s many, many attempts to kidnap the clueless Foam. Attempts that were always foiled either by the water-spirits’ refusal to harm him — like when one bakau crystal refused to allow a snare hung from its branches to capture him, and instead captured one of her beloved hounds — or from his own clumsiness. He ducked at just the wrong — or right — moments, fell and missed traps, rolled out of his hammock and onto a boiling pot of water (awakening the entire clan) right before she could grab him, and much, much more. But Keahi could not give him up, for it was not her nature to give up on something she claimed. As long as she had not yet captured him, she would keep trying.

"Is this story meant to teach a lesson," Arcee eventually asked, "or is it purely for entertainment?"

“Sometimes it’s used to teach newlings what not to do,” Prowl answered honestly, “either in planning their own kidnappings or just in general, but mostly it’s for entertainment. And there is no end to Keahi’s mishaps while trying to catch Foam.” Which might itself be one purpose of the stories: to poke fun at a god usually considered so powerful and implacable. “Literally. Every time I’ve asked what happened to him, I get a new story about another failed attempt of hers. There is a star named Foam, so they don’t believe him to still be alive or immortal, but as far as I can tell, there’s no resolution of him either being taken, dying, or Keahi giving up.”

Arcee laughed. "That does sound entertaining. Do they have other perpetually endless stories like that?"

“The Kokako stories,” Prowl said without hesitation, but, “I won’t tell you those. Kokako are large glossy birds known for their curiosity, daring, loud calls, and destructive and thieving nature. The stories about the Kokako god can be comedic, but they’re also often very gory and used very seriously to teach newlings about the dangers around them. As a result, the Kokako gets into every kind of trouble imaginable, and suffers the frequently fatal consequences.”

"Oh." That put a damper on Arcee's laughter. "Are the islands very dangerous?"

“They can be.”

Arcee reached out and took her hand. "I'm torn between asking what you encountered and not wanting to know how close we came to losing you."

“I couldn’t even tell you if you did ask.” Doing so would involve revealing too much about the islands and their natural defenses. “Suffice it to say there was more than just the fire mountain, but Jazz always took good care of me.”

"I don't doubt that for a nanoklik. That femme is so in love with you it's... well, it makes me a little jealous, sometimes. What Silverstreak and I have is good," she said quickly. "I care for him deeply and I know he cares for me, but we are friends more than lovers."

There was nothing reassuring Prowl could say to that. Many political marriages turned out a lot worse, with the two bonded mechs hating each other while remaining tied together by spark and obligation. “Good” and “friends” was a truly stellar outcome by comparison, and it spoke well for them both. 

Again, not really knowing (or caring) if she was offering or taking comfort, Prowl reached out to rest her hand on her friend’s arm. “I know you took the time to make sure you became friends, and that you’ve already interfaced and bonded,” Prowl said after a moment, “but if you want a more lover-like relationship... have you tried courting him? Gifts, outings, erotic poetry readings, those sorts of things?”

“I— no. Not really.” Arcee paused, considering. "Gifts I might do more of, especially as I've gotten to know him and what he enjoys better. Outings we haven't had much opportunity for, unfortunately. This situation in Kaon has been incredibly demanding on our schedules, and restrictive of our freedoms as well. Not that having Hot Rod or Drift constantly present is precisely a burden, but," her field flushed with  _ discomfort, _ "I would not be comfortable reciting poetry of that nature in their presence."

That made Prowl laugh out loud and hug Arcee tightly. “I’m sure you’ll manage. The point is, if you wish to become lovers, you could treat him like that’s what you wish. And ask. Asking rarely backfires.” She thought of the newlings and their explorations, and Crux’s little obsession with licking... “I’m sure you were perfectly gentle while bonding, but you could ask if he’d like to sparkmerge again, simply for pleasure.”

"Would it be appropriate, so soon after his recent ordeal?"

“Ordeal? You mean... I didn’t think the rebels had...” Surely Iacon would not be considering withdrawing from the fighting if Silverstreak had been violated in such a way!

"I didn't mean ordeal in that sense," Arcee clarified quickly. "Physically he suffered very little, all things considered. They planned to hold him as leverage for negotiation and attempted to keep him well to that end, but he still suffered fear, neglect, and verbal abuse. The problem is..." She stared into the fountain, watching the waterfall. "He knew it was his duty to withstand those things. He was trying to be strong for the sake of his country, only to be informed that his country viewed him as a liability."

“He’s  _ not _ a liability,” Prowl hissed fiercely.

"Not to you," Arcee agreed with a firm nod, "and not to me, and he knows that. He's said that me coming for him personally and finding you here before you could have possibly known he'd been rescued meant the world to him."

Prowl calmed. “Forgive my outburst,” she said. “That is a lot for him to contend with. I don’t know whether he would be receptive to your desire for a more passionate relationship right now, but that’s why you must ask him. There are ways to approach the subject without being overbearing, to share your feelings without making any demands of him.”

"Fair enough. I've made enough wrong assumptions about romance in my lifetime. Communicating openly, for all that it feels incredibly awkward, would probably be for the best."

Prowl hugged Arcee again. “Shall I let you go do so?”

"I would appreciate that," Arcee said, hugging back. "And I appreciate your willingness to speak before the council. How long do you plan to stay? You’re more than welcome."

“Thank you, but I’m afraid it was never my intention to remain in the First City for long. Since there isn’t a need for me to go off after you and Silverstreak after all, I will soon need to return to Hightower,”  _ to my clan. _ Besides, staying in Iacon risked straining their relationship with Praxus when what she’d done caught up with her. Better she was on her way out to sea before that happened. “Jazz is expecting me before the end of the trade season.”

Arcee was visibly saddened. "I was afraid you might say that. Do  _ not _ leave without saying goodbye," she said fiercely. "You hear me?"

“I won’t,” Prowl promised. “Now, go to Silverstreak. I’m just going to stay out here in the garden for a bit before going to bed.”

"Alright." Arcee stood and looked around. "Goodnight Lady Sundance, wherever you are."

“She went hunting, but I’ll pass on your well wishes. Goodnight,” Prowl said with a smile. “And good luck. Remember, if you make him cry, I will punch your lights out, Prime Ascendant or no.”

"Consider me warned. Don't think I haven't noticed how you move now," Arcee said, backing away with her hands up in mock surrender. "I'm most certainly not interested in being punched by a Polyhexian warrior. Again."

Despite herself, Prowl’s spark warmed to hear her friend recognize her as a warrior.

.

.

.

After speaking with the Council in what proved to be a truly unique meeting, Prowl stayed just long enough to hear the official decree that Iacon would cease pursuing the Kaonex rebels as demons. Optimus Prime ruled that there were no grounds for aggressive action beyond Iacon’s borders -- which Iacon would continue to defend if the rebels chose to instigate further hostilities, and they would support Praxus should  _ they _ decide to avenge the insult to their prince. It was presented as a unanimous decision, which Prowl thought was likely to be the truth. The impression she’d gotten from the Council was that they weren’t all that invested in the campaign and would be perfectly content to turn their attention to other things, provided it was the will of Primus. 

How they determined what the will of Primus actually was escaped Prowl, but Arcee assured her that there were methods and that they were confident in them.

Prowl had been ready to head back to Hightower as soon as she heard the good news, driving the whole way on her own so she could cut through forests to avoid anyone coming from Praxus. No word arrived from the king during the Council’s deliberations, but his messengers would certainly be on their way by now. She’d promised not to leave without saying goodbye though, and Silverstreak took the opportunity to guilt her into travelling with him instead. He needed her in his entourage for company and support, he claimed, since Arcee was required to stay in Iacon for several more cycles. While she had her misgivings, she hadn’t had it in her spark to refuse him.

She did refuse to ride in a separate carriage, however. There was no way she was announcing her presence like that, and besides! She could drive and fend for herself! When she wasn’t riding with Silverstreak to provide that company and support, or to hide.

Arcee left them outside the walls of Iacon City. It was hard to say goodbye, knowing it would be their final goodbye. Prowl hugged her friend fiercely as they both fought back their tears. 

Arcee’s private goodbye to Silverstreak was a little bit more passionate, though still entirely within the bounds of propriety despite Sundance’s lewd (and thankfully not understood) encouragements. Knowing that Arcee hoped for her relationship with Silverstreak to become more like that of lovers than mere friends and allies, Prowl was glad to see it. And to see Silverstreak responding positively.

“So how many times did you merge with her last night?” she ribbed gently. “Make any pretty sparkles?”

As expected, her brother’s EM field blushed fiercely, but he didn’t answer her. 

Mountainous as the terrain was, there was really only one main road that ran the entire distance between the capital cities. Unsurprisingly, they set out for Praxus on the same route any messengers coming to Iacon would be travelling on. Prowl expressed her concern that they would run into one to Silverstreak, who promised he would handle it if and when they did.

He was as good as his word when, not two cycles into their journey, they met up with a pair of swift couriers. Silverstreak intercepted them right away, steering them away from the carriage where Prowl and Sundance both tried anxiously and failed to eavesdrop from behind closed curtains.

"What did they say?" she asked once they were gone and Silverstreak rejoined them in the carriage.

“That they were immensely relieved to see me safe and sound and on my way home. They were set to abandon their mission to join us, but I charged them to complete their duty as assigned. Apparently they have an important message for the Prime, though they would not disclose it to me.”

“Probably to avoid distressing him if it had to do with us,” Sundance meowed.

Probably. Still, Prowl felt compelled to confirm, “No one knows I’m traveling with you, right?” Aside from the small guard contingent escorting them who believed her to be nothing more than a Praxan scholar returning from her studies in Iacon.

“The Prime and Princess Arcee both know,” Silverstreak answered primly, with a sparkle in his optics. “But of course the King does not. Why would he? The decision for you to accompany me was made only as I was preparing to leave.” He looked at her innocently.

Prowl chuckled. How perfectly adept of him. "Of course. And somehow I suspect my presence here didn't come up in conversation with the messengers either."

“Why would it?” He blinked guilelessly.

"I can't think of a single reason."

With that encounter behind them, Prowl was less worried about being seen and consequently spent less time hiding. It helped that Sundance wasn't overly fond of sharing the carriage with Lucky, which gave her an easy excuse to drive for a while when she started feeling too cooped up. Remembering Jazz’s trips to and from the capital, and how she’d zipped back and forth, pacing the carriage on her own wheels more than she’d ridden in it with Prowl, she couldn’t help but chuckle.

On the whole it turned out to be a much more pleasant trip than Prowl had thought it would be. She was glad she’d agreed to it and that she’d been able to spend a little more time with Silverstreak. All the same, Prowl felt a jittery, nervous energy building inside her that had her zipping back and forth across the road the closer they got to Praxus. She could barely restrain herself from peeling off and rushing on to Hightower and away from the mainland entirely by the time they reached the city walls. Prowl of Rainclouds didn’t belong here any longer.

“Come into the city,” Silverstreak implored her before she could take off. “Please.”

"It's a cage," Sundance hissed, glaring at the walls with her ears folded back. "No."

Prowl was in full agreement with her cat. "It's not a good idea, Silverstreak."

“One night,” he insisted. “Nothing will happen. I promise.”

"But can you promise it will only be one night?" Prowl countered. She'd escaped the city once before, yes, but it hadn't been easy — and that was without everyone being on the lookout for her, or having to start from a cell in the dungeon.

“I will escort you to the city walls myself in the morning,” he said earnestly. He reached out to take her hand. “You may even stay with me in my rooms. I,” his voice hitched. “I might even insist. Please, sister, just one more night before you leave me.”  _ Forever, _ he did not add, instead letting it trail off the end of the sentence like a loose anchor.

Prowl's resolve wavered at his appeal. It had been hard enough saying goodbye to Arcee. She wouldn't be any more likely to see Silverstreak again once they parted ways, and it made her spark ache. "Even if the king forbids it?"

Silverstreak’s gaze hardened. “He won’t,” he said with finality, then softened, “but yes. I will have you in my rooms, and escort you out of the city — and even all the way to the harbor in Hightower if I need to!”

Sundance still had her ears back suspiciously, but Prowl couldn't help it. Silverstreak and Arcee were the reasons she hadn't fled to Hightower in the first place. "If you really want me to stay so badly," she said, caving.

“I do.” Silverstreak pulled Prowl into a brief hug. “Thank you, sister.”

Compared to her own subdued, secreted ride through the streets, this time the trip through the city proper was  _ loud. _ People turned out to greet, wave, and throw ribbons and presents to welcome back their prince. The new entourage they’d picked up at the gate sent several servants scurrying around to collect the gifts, rather than let them be tread on by the zap ponies, the soldiers, or the carriage, and Silverstreak received each handful with a delighted smile.

One of the ribbons fluttered from Silversteak’s hands and Sundance pounced on it.

"At least you don't have to worry about whether to wave back or hide under the seats," Prowl meowed at her cat.

She rubbed against Prowl’s leg before pouncing another ribbon.

Regardless of her own concerns, it was wonderful to see Silverstreak so well received. The populace adored him and was absolutely ecstatic to have him back home, and he deserved every bit of that love and support.

“I never know what to do with all the ribbons,” Silverstreak admitted as they pulled into the castle courtyard. He tied one ribbon around Lucky’s neck and into a fancy bow, but it was just one ribbon. There were a lot more.

"Make kahawai?" Prowl said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind after  _ cat toy _ and winding up with something just as impractical. "Or, I don't know, have someone weave them into a wall hanging for you. Someday you'll have an entire hall of tapestries marking each return to Praxus in vivid color."

“Oh, that’s a nice idea. Hopefully, there will be lots of returns.” 

“I’m sure there will be,” Prowl said. The carriage had stopped and she could see the servants waiting to collect the gifts and the guards waiting to lead them inside. Silverstreak smiled at her as he opened the door and took the nearest guard’s hand and stepped down onto the cobblestone.  _ For you. _

"That is a nice idea," Sundance meowed around a mouthful of ribbon before jerking it back and forth with several hard, quick snaps of her head.

"I'm pretty sure it's dead. The spine it never had is well and truly broken," Prowl informed her.

The cat didn’t drop it and gave Prowl a dirty look.

“Princess?” Another guard was waiting to help her down.

"A moment," Prowl said, willing herself to relax. "Are you coming with me, or am I going to have to face this alone?" she asked Sundance.

The cat put down the ribbon. “Never alone,” she promised, sitting up on her back legs to ask to be picked up.

Prowl did so gratefully. "Thank you," she said, holding Sundance up for a kiss before setting her on her shoulder. "Alright," she told the guard. "I'm ready."

He started to lead her away as soon as she was out of the carriage, but, “She stays with me,” Silverstreak interrupted.

“Imperial Prince—”

“She stays with me,” he repeated evenly, and with a nod the guard acquiesced.

Prowl fell in behind Silverstreak right away. She walked close, definitely not interested in being separated. That guard wasn’t likely an escort to her rooms.

Silverstreak saw to it that the two of them were escorted to their —  _ his _ — rooms, sent a runner to announce their return to the king and that the Imperial Prince would like to speak to him, and set a dozen other wheels in motion. He reminded Prowl of a kattumaram cutting through uncooperative winds, sending servants and well-wishers scurrying along in his wake. 

Fortunately, at least as far as Prowl was concerned, they were able to bypass an appearance in the throne room. Perhaps it was a show of disfavor or annoyance with his two heirs that the king did not demand their presence, but Prowl didn’t care. She didn’t want to face him right now.

There weren't any  _ overt _ attempts to get her on her own, and most of the more subtle ones Prowl was willing to put down to the fact that they were going against the usual routine of How Things Were Done. Only a few of the senior servants were bold enough in their disapproval that she was positive it was her they were taking issue with, not the prince's decisions. Silverstreak bulldozed through every one of them, ignoring the subtle ones and countermanding the more overt attempts to separate them. Lucky helped considerably; he was very perceptive of his companion’s moods, and if Silverstreak didn’t want someone coming close, the turbohound didn’t need more than that to warn them off. There weren’t any servants (and probably very few soldiers!) willing to mess with the prince’s new pet, much less a “pet” Iaconi war dog.

Finally, they arrived at the prince’s rooms. He allowed his valet to give him a quick rub-down with a polishing cloth, then firmly sent him away. While Lucky explored the far corners of the room, sniffing at  _ everything, _ Silverstreak flopped down on his berth. “I have a meeting with the king in a joor, but until then,” he held his hand out to Prowl.

Prowl needed no further invitation. Sundance leaped off her shoulder onto the bed and Prowl was only a step behind, jumping up into the overly plush covers to cling and be clung to.

"He made time for you much more quickly than he did for me." Despite herself, Prowl was a little hurt by that. The king’s approval had been too important to her for too long for it not to matter at all, even when she felt he was so very wrong.

“To be fair, I’m returning after escaping enemy capture, while you probably needed a bath if you showed up at the palace looking like you did in Iacon.” Silverstreak cuddled up to her like a newling. “He does love you. I get compared to you a lot.”

"Really? I get frequent reminders of how much more satisfactory your performance is," Prowl said, engine settling into the soothing idle she'd developed with Crux, Cricket, and Kindle back on Rainclouds. As different from them as he was, Silverstreak was only a vorn older than they were...

Cooing, the prince relaxed into her arms. “You’re the best sister. I’m glad you came. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d refused.”

Prowl pet his helm affectionately. "I would have refused if I didn't have such a good brother." Both in the sense that she wanted to be there for him and in that she was currently depending on him for protection.

Silverstreak nodded that he understood. “Is there anything you want me to have the servants fetch from your rooms? Anything you want to take with you when you leave?” He tightened his grip, clinging to her fiercely. “I’m going to miss you.”

"I'm going to miss you too." Spirits and gods, she was going to miss him. "I suppose, if they haven't disturbed anything, there's a trunk I had packed that I had planned to take with me. The king's guard confiscated many of my spell components. And my spellbooks." She hadn’t thought about it before, but it would be nice to take them to Hightower where the palace mages and her old teachers couldn’t use them. Petty? Probably. "I wonder if there's a way for us to still write to each other."

Her brother’s EM field turned mulish for a nanoklik, then smoothed out. “I’m sure there will be.’

"I can have Ricochet leave letters with Smokescreen for me," Prowl said, thinking out loud, "but I don't know who he could reliably pass them on to." There was every chance the king would decide to prevent any communication from her ever reaching her brother through official channels.

“There’ll be someone waiting in Hightower. I’ll make  _ sure _ of it.” Now Silverstreak stroked Prowl’s side, right next to her doors. “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing. Rest, okay?”

She really should. Who knew how quickly she'd have to leave? "I'll try," she said, snuggling closer. "Please don't take my concern as a lack of trust in you." It was Bluestreak she didn't trust; or rather, trusted to be completely against her presence here and determined to do something about it as soon as possible.

“I don’t,” he assured. “Just rest. I’m glad you’re here.”

"As long as I don't have to climb down the walls of the castle again," Prowl murmured.

Silverstreak snickered.

Prowl wasn’t sure how long they laid there, clinging, but it must have been nearly a joor before Silverstreak stirred. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said. “I’ll come to get you for dinner.”

"Alright." Prowl was reluctant to let him go, but she knew she had to. "I'll be here. Assuming no one comes to move me, in which case I'll be hiding."

"You won't fit under the bed," Sundance mewed. 

"I was thinking I might climb up into the canopy," Prowl meowed back.

Silverstreak laughed tiredly. “You do that.”

"Good luck." He was going to need it. She watched him say goodbye to Lucky, promising some sort of treat when he returned and telling him to  _ stay, no silly,  _ **_stay,_ ** _ right there, on the rug _ on his way out the door.

Without Silverstreak, Prowl wasn’t really sure what she was supposed to do. She was curious, but while Jazz would not have hesitated to go through his things, the thought made her uncomfortable. She needed to do  _ something  _ though, something besides lay around in bed for the rest of the cycle.

A knock interrupted her internal debate.

"Hiding," Sundance announced, already out of sight by the time Prowl turned to look for her. Lucky took up a guard stance in the berthroom doorway while Prowl scrambled up into the bed canopy. She wasn’t here! .

The intruder didn’t go away. The door to the suite opened and Lucky let out a flurry of warning barks. “Princess?” Citrine called, hesitating when she was confronted with the big dog. To someone who’d never seen a war hound or a turbowolf before, Lucky probably looked absolutely enormous. “I have your trunk, and the Imperial Prince asked me to give you a quick polish before dinner.”

Oh. Citrine was... probably safe. Prowl risked calling out. "Who else is with you?"

“Geez you’re suspicious,” Sundance snickered from under the dresser.

“No one,” the servant said awkwardly. “Nice doggie?” She didn’t dare reaching in to pet him, a prudent decision given his bared teeth.

"It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you," Prowl grumbled at her spirit as she slid back down to the floor. "One moment," she told Citrine.

“Yes, Princess.” She retreated into the hall. Lucky didn’t stop barking.

Once she had her feet back on the ground, Prowl walked over to the door and calmed Lucky with a few words of Iaconi before allowing Citrine to enter. It was a relief to see it really was just her. "Hello, Citrine."

“Good evening, Imperial Princess.” She bowed, giving Lucky a wary look. “Where would you like your trunk?

"Here, with my other things." Prowl stepped back and gestured. “It’s alright, stay,” she told the dog, glad that Silverstreak hadn’t actually given the command to guard. "Do you know what has happened with the rest of my belongings?"

“I’m sorry I do not.” The femme came in and set the trunk down. “I’m ready whenever you are for your polish.”

"I'm as ready now as I can be, I think." It beat lying in bed doing nothing, though not by much. She missed basket weaving.

Citrine let Prowl lead the way into Silverstreak’s washing room. Behind them, Lucky settled down on the rug in the entry room, rolling his optics expressively.

Prowl encouraged Citrine to be quick in an effort to minimize the unwelcome touching, but Citrine insisted on tutting quietly over every little scratch.

"It comes with crossing the country," Prowl sighed, resisting the urge to fidget. "They're hardly significant, and only visible up close."

“It’s still terrible that someone has neglected you so.”

"No one has neglected me." Except maybe herself, but not in any ways that actually mattered. She was here for Silverstreak, not to attend court functions. At most, she needed to be presentable to her brother and the prison guards. And, apparently, her valet, if that's what Citrine still was.

“Are you certain you don’t want a touch-up?”

"Not of the paint itself. Just buff and polish them out as best you can."

“Yes, highness.” The femme looked dejected.

"I appreciate your dedication to your duties," Prowl said, not wanting her to feel bad. "Really. But I'm not going to be doing anything where it will matter."

“As you say,” she didn’t agree.

Eventually, Citrine pronounced Prowl presentable and tried to press a set of jewelry on her. Prowl firmly declined to wear it, but the femme didn’t put the pieces away until Silverstreak returned.

“Oh, good. You’re almost ready,” he said, peeking his head into the washroom. Lucky peeked in under his doorwing, making the image even more amusing.

"I should hope so." Weren’t they just supposed to be having dinner together? "How overdressed does the occasion really call for?"

“You’re fine.” He smiled. “You’re gorgeous.”

_ "Am," _ Prowl said with some amusement in Polyhexian before responding properly. "Thank you, but I'm nowhere near as fashionable as you and I know it."

His smile widened, and he dismissed Citrine. “Come on. You’re sitting next to me at the high table.”

Had... had she heard that right? "I'm sorry, I'm what?"

“Sitting next to me,” he repeated patiently.

"Silverstreak..."

“What?” He blinked innocently.

"I agreed to come into the city with you,  _ not  _ to the court!"

“It’s just for dinner. You don’t have to talk to anyone but me.”

He was  _ not _ this oblivious. "What's going on?" Prowl asked, frowning suspiciously. "I don't want to cause a scene, and I can't imagine how my presence will be welcome by anyone but you."

“The king never actually publicized that you were gone; he sent some guards to search for you and messengers to Iacon and Hightower to ask after you, but that’s it,” her sibling explained. “Rumor has it he ordered you not to attend court, maybe even sent you to an outlying manor for a while, but all anyone knows for a fact is that the two of you argued. So this will show you’re not leaving on a sour note.”

Oh. Well. One last incredibly strained dinner where all she had to do was endure the king's (and Mirage's, and who knew how many others’) disapproval in exchange for giving the whole affair a positive public veneer. It was hard to say no when she knew how far that would go to enabling things to run more smoothly once she was gone. "I would have appreciated a warning," Prowl said, acquiescing.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he teased gently.

"Guess I should have let her put the jewelry on," Prowl muttered. Silently, Sundance came slinking out of hiding and Prowl picked her up, settling her on her shoulder where she could hear her purr comfortingly.

“Come on.” Silverstreak took her hand. This time he didn’t let go of her as he repeated the ritual of coaxing his turbohound to stay in the room rather than follow them.

He almost dragged her through the halls to the staging room where the king waited. Silverstreak blithely ignored how a flute of fuel hadn’t been ordered for her and offered his own.

"Thank you," Prowl said graciously. Awkward? Nooooo, not at all. What little of Bluestreak's expression she'd seen before glancing away as she was supposed to do until she was acknowledged hadn't been promising.

Silverstreak seemed determined to overcome the awkward by sheer force. He talked to them both and it did not escape Prowl that the king did not seem overjoyed by his younger heir’s chatter.

Fortunately, it was not a long wait.

"This is the last time we have to do this, right?" Sundance asked quietly from Prowl's shoulder.

“Yes,” Prowl meowed back as they sat. True to Silverstreak’s word, she was seated next to him, where either the Prince’s companion or the second heir should be. That much, at least, was a relief. Being at the high table at all, on the other hand, after having finally made her decision to leave, felt wrong. She was not,  _ could not _ be Praxus' second heir.

Assuming that Prowl’s return to the court was a good thing for her, the courtier next to her tried to engage her in conversation, but once again, Silverstreak rescued her.

"I hope my being here really is helping you somehow, considering all the trouble you're going to," Prowl whispered to him.

“Always,” he promised, giving her an extraordinarily public half-hug

"Awww. He loves you," Sundance purred.

_ Love. _ Prowl let her field speak for her.

Still, she was eager to escape once dinner was dismissed. The king left to allow the court to mingle and politic, and though he might normally have stayed to participate, this time Silverstreak took Prowl’s hand and followed him out. 

King Bluestreak was waiting for them just beyond the door.

Prowl felt the urge to bolt, to dash down the hallway and out the window. It was a cowardly impulse, but then, “cowardly” wasn’t really a thing in Polyhex. Spirit-possessed warriors may be nearly impossible to scare away, but there was no shame in running, hiding, ambushing… Silverstreak’s gentle hand on her, supportive, encouraging, and holding her there, was all that kept her in place. 

Was the king going to yell at her now? Finish the shouting match they’d put on hold before she’d fled? Or was he going to quietly, coldly, cut her out of Praxus forever?

“After due deliberation,” he said at last, “I have decided not to levy any  _ official _ punishment for your actions  _ or _ your failures as ambassador.” His tone was even, calm, almost disinterested even, like he was commenting on the state of the weather, which was rather pleasant but rather too chilly to take a stroll in the gardens, don’t you agree? 

He  _ what?  _ Prowl stood rigidly, unable to believe her audios. “Your majesty is exceedingly generous,” she managed after a long moment of stiff silence.

The king’s optics flicked over to Silverstreak, standing next to her, so quickly Prowl wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it.  _ “Iacon,” _ he said firmly, tacitly denying his younger heir had anything to do with this, “has made it clear they may wish to consult your unique expertise over the next few vorns. As far as I am concerned, they may send their representatives  _ to Hightower _ to do so, as they would to speak to any other barbarian.”

_ Any other barbarian. _ He probably meant it as an insult, but Prowl had to fight back a smile. He wasn’t recognizing her as Polyhexian so much as revoking her Praxan citizenship by the sound of it, but not as completely as she’d been anticipating. “Am I, then, welcome in Hightower under the same truce as any other barbarian?”

“You are welcome in Hightower as Praxus’ Princess,” he corrected caustically, “but if,” he lowered his voice, almost growling out the words, “I find you have taken advantage of my generosity in this matter in any way, I will make you regret it.”

Ahh. So that was how he’d decided to handle this: sweep it all under the rug so everything remained undisturbed on the surface for the sake of appearances, but she was still functionally banished. She was allowed in Hightower, but no further inland. “I understand, your majesty.” Again, it was better than she’d hoped for, significantly so, and very surprising considering how angry the king clearly was with her. He swept out without another word, his cape flaring dramatically behind him. 

As soon as he was gone, Silverstreak swept her up in a hug. “See? I told you things would be fine.”

“I’m still trying to work out  _ how,”  _ Prowl said, willing her frame to relax from its tense posture. Her doors  _ hurt _ from the strain! “He’s  _ furious  _ with me, and don’t try to tell me otherwise!”

“He’s furious, but he always does what’s best for Praxus,” Silverstreak said, pulling her down the hall back towards his rooms. “Always.”

“And this is what he’s determined is best?” If she sounded skeptical, she wasn’t sorry. Disagreeing with the king on what was best for Praxus was what had finally forced her hand. She couldn’t see how keeping her as a legal, if estranged, princess could be better than actually exiling her. He’d always,  _ always _ resented how her bonding to Jazz had required him to select a second heir. She’d expected her actions as a Polyhexian warrior would get her exiled, and that was  _ before _ defying him and escaping the castle!

“He’s really very reasonable,” Silverstreak said guilelessly. 

Reasonable?  _ Reasonable? _ Granted, Bluestreak wasn’t really an extremist but if these last few vorn had taught her anything, it was how  _ stubborn _ the king could be!

Silverstreak took advantage of Prowl’s sudden bout of speechlessness to prod her back upstairs to his room.

He shut the door to his rooms behind them when they arrived. “Lucky! What are you doing on the couch?” The exclamation completely failed as an admonishment. Lucky just wagged his tail slowly in greeting, thumping it against the cushions in uncomprehending happiness at their return. Silverstreak sighed. 

“He’s being a  _ dog,”  _ Sundance meowed in a distinctly disgusted tone, then promptly climbed up onto the furniture where  _ she  _ didn’t belong. 

Prowl sighed too. “Critters. Gotta love ‘em.”

“Love you too,” the cat purred, kneading on the expensive silversilk cushion.

“I’m glad he found me,” Silverstreak said. “Come,” he called in Iaconi, and the dog jumped down to trot over to him and sit, unasked, at the prince’s feet. “I don’t suppose you can talk to him like you do Sundance?” he asked, petting the mechanimal’s head, much to Lucky’s obvious pleasure. “I want him trained to accompany me to the court, but I’m not sure how to start or who to consult. He’s already trained as a war-dog, so I’m hesitant to bring in outside help who can’t work with that.”

“Unfortunately I can’t,” Prowl replied. “The only reason I can talk to Sundance is that she’s my spirit. I have no gift or magic with mechanimals.” Not like Zephyr back on Rainclouds, or Hound in Iacon. “If you’re looking for a place to start though, perhaps you could begin with a trainer to evaluate his temperament and tolerance for long periods of restrained inactivity,” because if he was going to appear in court, he’d need to be able to remain calm for joors at a time with none of the outlets for excess energy he was used to, “and relearning some basic commands so he can respond to Praxan as well as Iaconi.”

“I’ll see about that, then,” Silverstreak agreed. “Heel,” he commanded in Iaconi, then strode into the bedroom. Lucky followed obediently. “Come on. Sleep now, and I’ll see you to the gate in the morning.”

“Alright. You know,” Prowl said, leaving Sundance behind as she followed as well, “if I’m allowed in Hightower, publically, I’ll be able to do more than leave you letters if you and Arcee ever make it out there again.”

“We’ll be there whenever we can,” Silverstreak promised. Lucky jumped up on the berth in front of him, and he laid down next to the dog, petting his gleaming plating. “The king will come too, eventually. He’ll never lift your exile, but eventually he’ll come to see you. He loves you.”

Prowl was doubtful. She knew the king had been fond of her, but she was sure she had defied him too many times for that affection to overcome his anger and wounded pride. She’d sacrificed that affection knowingly, but there was still part of her that ached at the loss.“We’ll see,” she said for Silverstreak’s benefit. She still had her brother’s love, and his promise to visit her in Hightower. It was more than she’d thought she’d have when she’d made her decision.

She could not be of two worlds. She belonged in Polyhex.

“Just rest,” Silverstreak implored sleepily.

“After that meal?” And the equally brief and tense confrontation that had followed? “I’d like nothing more. Thank you.”

Silverstreak pulled Prowl’s arm over himself so that he was wedged safely between his older sibling and his new turbohound guardian. He even made a cooing sound so reminiscent of Crux and the other newlings… Prowl automatically purred back a soothing cadence. 

She wound up lulling herself to sleep.

.

.

.

In what was surely less a show of his “support” for his oldest heir than an attempt to annoy her, King Bluestreak (quite possibly in conjunction with Mirage) arranged a full court farewell for her morning departure. Prowl was stuck in a carriage while they paraded her through the streets of the City of Praxus. 

“I will not miss this at all,” Sundance hissed.

“Me neither,” Prowl agreed, waving at a knot of shopkeepers who’d turned out to say farewell. Being forced to stand on ceremony one last time was unpleasant, but she didn’t have anything against the citizens. She was grateful for the handful of ribbons and small assortment of crystal flowers made of flimsy they gifted her and added them to her things to take with her.

The carriage, of course, she ditched as soon as she could.

At the gates of the city, she personally oversaw the transfer of her final belongings onto the single zap pony she was bringing to carry the bulkier items. The chest of jars and other valuables wasn't something she could fit in her alt mode, and the rest was a nuisance to transform around. Easier to have the mechanimal carry it all, since she had the option.

Silverstreak watched indulgently. “You could take everything with you,” he reminded. “Carriages are more comfortable than driving on rough gravel. Your guards would appreciate it.”

"My guards," Prowl looked over at the group of mechs waiting at a discreet distance while she spoke to the prince, "are entirely unnecessary and will slow me down as it is. I need to get back to Hightower as soon as possible." She desperately wanted to get back to Polyhex before the Harvest season was over! Rainclouds needed newlings, and they were probably only getting a single handful of the lottery beads as it was. Prowl’s gifts could get them more, if they arrived in time to present them.

Silverstreak laughed but didn’t try to convince her otherwise. “Be careful then. I don’t want to lose you.”

"After you worked so hard to ensure you wouldn't?" Prowl smiled at him. "Thank you for everything you did for me."

His answering smile was sweet and wistful. “Do I get a hug goodbye?”

"Of course you do!" Heedless of how it would scratch their respective paint, Prowl threw her arms around her brother with all the enthusiasm of the Polyhexian warrior she was. "I'm going to miss you. Please send word to the wharf when you'll be visiting Hightower? I'll only be able to come during a portion of the trade season, but if we happen to be there at the same time I very much want to see you."

“I will,” he promised. He was still a little stiff wrapping his arms around her in turn, but he did it with real affection. “I love you,” he whispered, far too quiet for their audience to hear.

_ Love. _ Prowl's field filled with answering emotion and she whispered back, "I love you too."

“Goodbye, sister.”

"Goodbye, brother." It sounded so final, and Prowl had to school her expression as she let go and ended the hug. Despite their best intentions, Silverstreak's schedule was not entirely his to dictate, and Prowl would be at the mercy of the elements out on the sea. Their next meeting might not come until they became stars.

The melancholy possibility hung in the air between them, but Silverstreak boldly asserted, “I’ll see you as soon as I can,” before letting her go.

Sundance trotted up to him and meowed. "Pick me up?"

He couldn’t understand her of course, but he did so anyway, sweeping the cat up into a fierce hug. “I’m going to miss you too.”

"You'd better." Sundance rubbed her face over every inch of him she could reach, then licked his nose for good measure. "Love you."

He didn’t respond to that, except to hug her tighter for a klik, then reluctantly handed her back to Prowl. “You be good for Prowl.”

Sundance laughed. "Tell her to be good for me."

Prowl didn't dignify that with a response. "Travel safe, wherever the road takes you."

Silverstreak nodded. He called out for Lucky, who came trotting out from where he’d been investigating the brush, and climbed back into the carriage with him. Waving one last time, he had the driver turn back to the city, taking all but two of the guards with him.

Prowl watched the carriage pull away and, when it was no longer possible for Silverstreak to look back and see her, she looked up at the castle in the distance. It would be her last time ever seeing it. It was still a beautiful sight. The stone structure rose up over the landscape, towering over the valleys and challenging the mountains around it. In the light of the sun, it glittered like crystal. Like a fairytale.

"'And the hero drives off into the sunset'," Sundance mewed from Prowl's shoulder, quoting a familiar end to such tales.

Prowl smiled. "Of course she does. How else can she learn where the sun makes its bed?"

And now it was time to find out. 

With the pony ready, she transformed and drove, if not into the sunset, toward the call of the sea. 

Over the next few cycles, she set a ruthless pace. More than once she heard her guards complaining about her after they’d stopped and she’d gone to “sleep” around midnight. If it weren't for the fact that they were accompanying her as much to ensure she actually arrived in Hightower as to see that she arrived there safely, she would have told them no one was forcing them to keep up with her. She didn't need to hear their orders to know what they were. There was no way the king wanted her deviating from the road.

As if there was anywhere else in the world she'd rather be than with her beloved.

The light was fading when the walls of Hightower came into view a few cycles later. Prowl put on a burst of speed. Last time she and Jazz had reunited here, Jazz had been waiting—

“Prowl!” The pearly white car zipped out of the shadows, where she had probably been foraging, and past the guards before they could react.

"Jazz!" Prowl let her acceleration carry into her transformation sequence. The result left her hurtling toward Jazz in midair, arms outstretched.  _ Love! _

They collided and went rolling. They tumbled across the road and into the brush where they rolled to a stop with Prowl on top of Jazz, who did not look remotely unhappy to be pinned. The guards, transforming and pulling weapons, stalled, confused at the swift dispatch of the assailant. 

Jazz ignored them. She wiggled enticingly and leaned upward, trying to catch Prowl in a kiss.

"Stand down," Prowl called back to the guards, optics fixed on Jazz. "There is no danger. This is my mate." And she wanted that kiss too! They met halfway, passion sizzling between them.

The guards must have listened because they weren’t interrupted. Not when Jazz wiggled her arms free and started running her hands over Prowl’s frame desperately, not when she pulled Prowl closer, deepening their kiss; not even when Jazz deftly flipped them over, still liplocked, deeper into the crystals lining the road. 

“Spirits and gods,” Jazz whispered as they both pulled out of the kiss, panting. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, and Jazz dove back in, kissing Prowl’s face and neck, showering her with love. “I want ya,” she whispered, licking at the top of the brightly glowing mark over Prowl’s chest seam. “Need ya.”

"'S mutual," Prowl gasped, her plating unlatching to open slightly under her mate's touch. Just a little at first; just enough that it wasn't possible to distinguish the glow of her spark from the glow of the paint, but it was enough to  _ feel _ that much closer to Jazz. "Dunno how I'd live without ya."

“Ain’t leavin’ me behind next time,” Jazz said fiercely, her own chest opening, and wisps of their sparks reached out to intertwine, yanking them closer in a way that felt almost physical. “Don’t care if it’s dangerous, ain’t leavin’ me.”

Prowl very nearly sobbed. "Ain't goin' back again. Ever. Hightower's 's far from th'sea as I'm ever goin' again."

That could only be good news to Jazz, but she didn’t cheer, or even say anything. She recognized a sacrifice when she heard it, and accepted it with silence and proffered comfort. Her chest opened wider, fully exposing her spark. “Let me...?”

"Please." Prowl didn't even have to think about opening her plating the rest of the way. The panels folded back automatically. "Please!"

Veiled from the road by only by a few sparse and battered crystal weeds, her spark lit up Jazz’s plating, throwing her expression of love and wonder into sharp contrast. Prowl expected her to dive in immediately, impatiently, but Jazz smiled softly. “I love ya,” she announced, not even bothering to whisper, as she reached in to cup her hands around Prowl’s spark. “Yer so beautiful... My star. My guiding star.“

Prowl trembled, feeling so treasured and cherished she almost couldn't believe it was real. Such flowery language would have sounded silly in Praxan; in Polyhexian, it was a promise of devotion as much as a term of affection. "That why ya never get lost?"

“Must be.” Jazz kissed the top of her chest, right where the plating opened, then leaned forward to kiss her again, deeply. Prowl felt her beloved’s hands cradling her head the instant before the reaching tendrils of their sparks pulled them together.

_ Jazz!Love!Please!Tellme... _

Had she done the right thing? Did Jazz still love her, even though she wasn't a princess anymore?

Of course she did.  _ Love! _ It was as pure as it had ever been in Jazz’s spark. She loved her with her whole spark, sweeping up Prowl’s uncertainty like a fire-swirl and engulfing it with her own feelings. It was as wide and deep as the Rust Sea:  _ love you. Perfect. Beautiful. _

_ My mate. My love. _

That absolute acceptance of who she was meant more than Prowl could articulate. Jazz appreciated her accomplishments, but she didn't hold them against any standards. Prowl could never come up lacking; Jazz's love was unconditional. 

_ Same, _ Prowl pulsed back, determined that Jazz should see how wonderful she was too.  _ Gorgeous, vibrant, perfect. Love. Forever. _

_ Forever, _ Jazz echoed.

This. Their sparks, together in a binary star system. A future constellation.

Prowl could almost see them, unfurling out across the night sky: she and Jazz, circling each other as one. Ricochet and Smokescreen hovered nearby. Crux, Silverstreak, and Arcee spread out around them with Wheeljack and the rest of the clan... 

_ Forever. _

_ My guiding star... _ Jazz’s love, her spark, contracted, then exploded outward, sweeping through their frames like a wave of fire and water.

Prowl rode it with her to the very end, surfing the intensity until it became too much and pulled her under in a sea-wave of deep, soothing  _ peace. _

When she finally began to surface, it was a slow, gradual thing. At first, Prowl didn’t realize her optics were actually back on. Above her were the stars, so like the ones in the vision of their sparks that she thought she was still dreaming. The chirps of hoppers filled the air around them, but for once Jazz wasn’t singing; save for the soft whirring of her fans she was quiet, her frame laying quiescent and peaceful next to/on top of Prowl, though she purred softly when Prowl stroked her fingers over her beloved’s helm. 

Somewhere nearby, Sundance snickered. “Now that you’ve nearly killed them with embarrassment, what’s next?”

Nearly killed who? Oh. Looking back towards the road, Prowl did see two guards standing stiffly, their backs to her, doing their best to block anyone from looking in her direction.

Princess Prowl would have been mortified.

Prowl of Rainclouds only felt moderately embarrassed, and that more because she had forgotten about them than because she’d exposed herself in their presence.

"Do you suppose it would make them feel better if I told them it wasn't my intent to traumatize them?" Prowl meowed, making no move to get up just yet.

“Probably not.” Sundance came abruptly into view as she leaped up onto the part of Prowl’s chest that didn’t currently have an amorous warrior draped over it. She licked Jazz’s sensor horn. “It’s time to say hi to me, you lazy creature,” she demanded.

As if in response, Jazz swept the shipcat into a hug, cuddling her between their frames, where tendrils of sparklight still reached out of their cracked chests to make faint knots of blue. She purred deeply, then yawned. “‘Lo, beautiful.”

"That's better," Sundance said primly, then promptly started purring up a storm and rubbing her scent all over Jazz.

Scritching all of the cat’s favorite spots with her claws, Jazz looked into Prowl’s optics and smiled.

Prowl smiled back. "Hi, beautiful. I've got so much to tell you."

“Here? Now? Or on th’water? Rico’n I’re ready t’shove off whenever y’are.”

"On th'water. Brought stuff," Prowl nodded over to the zap pony the disturbed guards were dutifully watching. "'S good stuff."

“Oh?” With one last caress that started on Sundance’s head and ended somewhere near Prowl’s hip, Jazz scrambled up to look. The last tendril of her spark stretched thin and released; her plating snapped closed after she was already in motion. 

The guards averted their optics, and the zap pony eyed Jazz warily like it wasn’t sure what to make of this femme who smelled like a predator. Jazz ignored their reactions and proceeded to coo over the trunk. “Ni~ice!”.

Prowl closed her armor as she got to her feet. "Thank you for your discretion," she told the guard captain, marking what had happened officially a closed matter so they could all get on with pretending it had never happened (until it was time to gossip about it). "Ain't just the trunk," she said to Jazz. "Got a whole lotta stuff in it, too."

Visor brightening, Jazz deftly undid the latch with the sort of familiarity that told Prowl she’d seen that configuration many times before. Just like the kokako they were so inspired by, if an islander had seen how to open something once, she had that skill for life. Jazz didn’t open it very far — this wasn’t an optimal place to haul out all of the loot and brag over it — but the gleam of all Prowl’s little glass jars was enough to elicit an impressed whistle. 

“Very nice.”

"Thought so," Prowl said with pride, then realized she could add, "Stole 'em fair 'n square."

“Did!” Jazz’s smile widened. “Let’s git this back t’th’boat,” she suggested, closing the chest back up. She turned and swept Prowl up into another hug. “Let’s git  _ us _ back where we belong.”

"Yes please." Prowl considered her things. "Can we manage ’tween just us, or bring th’grazer t’th’dock?"

Jazz hefted it experimentally. “We can carry it.”

"'Kay." Prowl started unloading the zap pony. "Will you be accompanying us into the city itself?" she asked the closest guard. "I am no longer in need of an escort."

The guards looked at each other, then at the gates of Hightower. During the rest of the vorn they closed as soon as the sun set, but right now the guards there were still dealing with the line of merchants and tourists asking for entry. With Kaon and its conflicts far away, and it being the season of peace with Polyhex, the gates would remain open until the queue was gone. As such, they were lighting lamps and lanterns to keep the whole area bright for joors yet. “We’ll make sure you get in the city alright,” one offered, a compromise.

Good enough. It wasn't worth making a fuss over. "Thank you."

The gate guards recognized Jazz and rolled their optics at her as she and Prowl approached with their trunk, but gave Prowl a questioning look. One of the guards from Praxus hurried ahead and explained in rushed tones, which ensured they weren’t stopped as they entered the bustling city.

The sea had been a faint salt-and-rust perfume layered on top of the forest musk for the last several joors; now, the forest-scent dropped away and Prowl’s sensors were assaulted by the full power of the sea’s aroma. She ignored the houses and the dressed-up, closed-down markets, the cawing of seabirds and the sights and sounds of the parties that would go on through the morning. She focused on that, the scent. 

Ahhhhh... She drew in a deep breath. It was wonderful.

"Know what else it is?" Sundance meowed.

"No. What?"

_ "Wet." _

Hearing the familiar, emphatic meow, Jazz chuckled.

"Okay, yes, it's wet," Prowl allowed. "Wet and rusty and salty and dangerous and  _ free." _

“Yes, it is,” Sundance agreed, rubbing against her legs and purring.

Prowl smiled at her, then looked to Jazz. "Y'said yer ready t'go any time?"

“Am. Ricochet should be—” There. They finished weaving through the crowd and the glimpses of masts and kahawai gave way to a full view of the docks, where Ricochet was lounging with Smokescreen and a mixed circle of other warriors and off work Praxans. On a reed mat in the center was a pair of dice — Praxan style, with pips, rather than the elaborately carved Polyhexian ones that progressed in value according to milestones in a story — and piles of various small loot. Prowl saw a mix of coins, beads, other dice, energon treats, sea gems and pearls, shells, and common stones all being bet as if they were of equal value.

"Better be winnin'," she heckled Ricochet once they were in earshot.

“‘Course we are!” she bragged, earning an elbow to her torso armor as Smokescreen vehemently denied being in cahoots. The warriors jeered back, having expected that sort of cheating as a matter of course, while those Praxans who understood what they were saying (and the implications of Ricochet’s slip) looked affronted. One gathered up his un-bet valuables and walked away, his doorwings set at a high, offended angle, while the warriors jeered at his back. They were all probably cheating just at least as much as Ricochet and Smokescreen were.

Prowl rolled her optics and continued past them with Jazz, maneuvering the chest and her other belongings into an empty space in the cargo hull of their — their! — kattumaram. There was a lot of stuff already there, but none of the crates of trade goods they'd brought in with them remained, which was nice to see. She hoped the pearls, jewelry and sea gems, as well as the casting dies and books Prowl herself had taken from the war-season’s raids on Praxus, had sold well. The clan needed the fuel. "Get a good trade fer everything?"

“Of course I did,” Smokescreen huffed, pulling his doors up in mock-offense while he threw the dice. One of the warriors groaned when they stopped, and Smokescreen dropped his pretense to sweep up his winnings.  _ ”I,” _ he said to Prowl after he’d finished mocking his hapless victim and passed the dice to his left, “am th’best.” 

“Are,” Ricochet agreed, nuzzling her mate. “We’ve got plenty’a fuel fer th’trip an’ fer th’clan. What’d y’git?” Her optics gazed at the trunk with interest.

“Prowl stole a crate full’a glass jars.” Jazz hopped gleefully down into the kattumaram’s hull, then eased the trunk in after her, securing it in with the other cargo where it wouldn’t get tossed by the waves and its contents broken. Hopefully. “Soooooo many glass jars.”

“Yeah?” Ricochet scooped up her winnings and came over to look. “Lemme see!”

Prowl pushed Jazz aside so she could be the one to lift the lid and show off her contribution. "Ta-da," she announced grandly.

Ricochet wasn’t the only one who abandoned the game to take a peek; Smokescreen and one of the Praxans who’d stayed took advantage of the distraction to filch the others’ stakes. “Ooooh!” One warrior whistled. That much glass by itself was impressive, but the jars were packed securely with fine cloth towels (the two blankets she’d taken to Iacon were still with her personal things) and each one was filled with gems, metals, jewelry chains, ribbons, and other interesting little finds. There was even a rare crystal prism, though Prowl didn’t know how far down it was packed.

Giggling proudly, Jazz wrapped her arms around Prowl. “Veery nice, beautiful!”

"Ain't it though?" Even if it was just stealing from herself. She was entitled to every bit of that stuff and then some for what she'd put up with the last several decacycles. "Ah-ah! Keep yer mitts off th'merch," she scolded, swatting away another warrior who'd gotten too close. 

"Yeah!" Sundance chimed in, jumping up on the bottles to stand protectively over them. Her armor fluffed out aggressively and she yowled, baring her fangs. "No sticky claws!"

Snickering at both the “fierce lil shipcat!” and the warrior Prowl had swatted, the rest of the warriors drew back to a respectful distance. 

Prowl scooped up her familiar, and Jazz closed and latched the trunk with finality. “Ready t’shove off?” she asked Ricochet. “Tide looks high enough.”

“Not before I git a goodbye kiss,” Smokescreen called out, dropping a bag of loot — probably half of what he’d just swept up from the forgotten betting piles — into the cargo hull.

"Just’a kiss?" Ricochet purred seductively, swaggering up to him before practically climbing him.

Prowl just laughed. "They wanna git in one last frag, let 'em," she said and started digging through her personal belongings. "Gives me time t'get dressed."

She let Smokescreen and Ricochet and all of the cheering crowd fade into the background. Jazz’s claws joined her fingers, searching through the rolls of cloth and bedding and blankets and streamers to help pull out her favorite strings of beads and ornaments. She draped them on Prowl’s neck, then wrists. That kept Prowl from pulling out her hikurere and sarong, but she didn’t mind. Jazz would get to those. 

Wrapping a string of irregularly shaped and colored pearls around Prowl’s wrist, Jazz brought it to her lips and kissed her fingertips. Then she cocked her head in askance.  _ Do you want more? _

Prowl thought about it. She'd been oblivious to the guards outside the city, but that had been due in large part to the overwhelming  _ need _ to merge with Jazz again after being separated. Here on the docks, more people would see them, hear them... but she did still  _ want. _

"Paint me first," she said, tracing Jazz's lips with her fingers. "Then ask me again."

The full repaint of custom, Wheeljack-made paint would have to wait until they were back in the islands (she had managed to find a set of cast iron cooking pans that would make a good trade!), and Jazz didn’t make the mistake of thinking that’s what she meant. She found the two shell-boxes of wake-light paint and its reagent and opened them. “Paint me too?” she implored, dipping her finger into the paint and copying Prowl’s gesture, putting a dot below her bottom lip before activating it. Then she kissed her.

It was impossible to answer verbally with her doing that! But Prowl reached out and dipped her fingers in the paint too, eagerly refreshing the glowing points of light on her beloved's audio horns.

They didn’t end up spark merging, but soon Jazz had her hands all over Prowl, painting her doors and her arms. Prowl tipped Jazz’s claws in the blue glow, while Jazz painted the edges of her armor and even some of her internal wires on her abdomen and hips. They refamiliarized themselves with each other’s frames, gasping and moaning unashamedly when they found the right spots, and marked them with the glowing paint, like the lightning just before overload.

Somehow, even Sundance ended up with a blue dot on her nose. “How am I supposed to hunt glitchmice with  _ this?” _ she whined, and both Jazz and Prowl laughed when Prowl translated.

"Felt so wrong without 'em," Prowl said, admiring their combined efforts. The ones she’d put on herself in Iacon had been far too sparse. This was so much better. "Every time they fussed with m'finish."

Jazz giggled. “Me’n Sundance’re gonna have’ta work extra hard t’sneak,” she said, already looking forward to the challenge. 

One of the warriors, who had been watching them instead of Ricochet and Smokescreen’s show, whistled admiringly. “Pretty.”

"Am," Prowl said, feeling prettier now than she had at any point since arriving on the mainland. She felt  _ comfortable _ with how she looked in tribal paint and beaded jewelry, rather than feeling she was wearing an overly polished color scheme that no longer suited her. That had, she could admit now, never suited her.

“Look with yer visor, not yer hands,” Jazz scolded the warrior cheerfully as he reached out to touch. Then wrapped Prowl’s hikurere around her shoulders. “Beautiful. My star.” She kissed Prowl lightly, this time no more than a peck on the glowing dot on her bottom lip.

"And mine," Prowl replied. She would not want for physical contact in Polyhex, but amorous advances she only wanted from Jazz. Having the stars in her optics, they called it, and she thought it fitting. "Yer th'only one I see."

The warriors snickered and withdrew, respecting the couple’s boundaries, even if they didn’t understand why two femmes who’d been bonded for two vorns were still so star-eyed. 

Wrapping the sarong around Prowl’s waist, Jazz secured it with a knot. She stroked the lines of wake-light paint on Prowl’s leg, the flash of light visible at the slit where the edges of the sarong sometimes overlapped.

It was also, Prowl discovered, in a place where her knives wouldn't cover it as she strapped them back on.

Not an accident, she surmised, watching her love’s smug head tilt as she finished re-dressing Prowl as the sea-faring warrior (on holiday) she was, knives and all, though the larger weapons — her xiphos and harpoons — would wait. She petted the marks on her leg, and Ricochet whistled as she slid into the kattumaram next to them. She looked loose and satisfied, and Prowl saw several new scratches in her matte finish. 

“Tide’s still good,” she said, preening. 

Jazz snickered. “Start gittin’ th’anchor.”

Ricochet made a rude gesture, but she was already hauling in the rope.

"Hey," Smokescreen said, sounding equally relaxed as he came up to sit on the dock near Prowl. "I hope I get to see more of you next vorn. I wish there was time to ask you about what happened in the capital. The rumor mill has been going wild."

"I'm sure it has," Prowl said noncommittally. She knew better than to throw verbal stones without thinking now. Once things had had time to settle, and official communications had had time to be dispersed, then she would know what was safe to say… and how much she wanted to shake things up. "I am sorry to have missed all the joys of the trade season this time around. Was she," she lowered her voice and glanced briefly at Jazz, "okay while I was gone?"

Smokescreen also looked over at Jazz, now fussing with the oars that would take them out of the crowded harbor to where the wind would catch them. He leaned on the kattumaram but kept his weight firmly on the dock. “She was jittery. Spent a lot of time out in front of the gates. I heard other people talk about how weird she was being, but otherwise, she was okay.”

Prowl's doors sagged with relief. Jazz hadn't wanted to let her go alone, and she'd been worried that her mate would become distraught and possibly even come after her when she didn't return quickly. Not that it wouldn't have been nice to have Jazz come for her if she'd wound up in a dungeon, but it would have only compounded the danger for both of them. "Thank you for looking after her. You and Ricochet both. I had no way of sending word when it became evident I would be delayed."

“You’re welcome.” The kattumaram started to drift away, and Smokescreen pulled back so he wouldn’t fall into the water. “See you next trade season.”

"You betcha," Prowl promised in Polyhexian. "Don't work too hard 'til then!"

“Never!” he responded with a laugh in the same language. Smokescreen always arranged his vornly schedule so he only had to do minimal work once the trade season was over. He clasped her hand in a firm handshake.

Then let go; the kattumaram had drifted too far out to hold on.

Smokescreen waved.

Prowl waved back, then turned her back on the docks, on the city, on Praxus, one last time.

Instead, she looked out to the sea, to home.

.

.

.

####  End

**Author's Note:**

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